*    /-i  0 


To 
M.  S.  S 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

That  part  of  the  Introduction  which  deals  with  the  history  of  dra 
matic  literature  in  the  United  States  obviously  owes  much  to  the 
original  studies  of  Brander  Matthews,  Professor  of  Dramatic  Litera 
ture  in  Columbia  University,  and  Member  of  the  American  Academy 
of  Arts  and  Letters;  to  the  research  of  Arthur  Hobson  Quinn,  Dean 
of  the  College,  University  of  Pennsylvania;  and  to  the  writings  of 
Montrose  J.  Moses. 

Besides  referring  gratefully  to  these  authorities,  the  editor  takes 
pleasure  in  thanking  warmly  Augustus  Thomas,  George  S.  Kaufman, 
Marc  Connolly,  and  Booth  Tarkington,  whose  plays  are  included  in 
this  volume.  To  the  courtesy  of  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  and 
Messrs.  Little,  Brown  and  Company  respectively,  the  editor  owes 
permission  to  use  Dulcy  and  Beau  Brummell.  The  Copperhead 
is  here  printed  for  the  first  time.  The  Intimate  Strangers,  just  pub 
lished  in  Harper's  Magazine,  has  never  appeared  in  book  form 
before. 

The  editor  is  again  indebted  to  Helen  Hopkins  Crandell  for  her 
faithful  work  on  the  proofs  of  this  book. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DRAMA  IN  AMERICA,  AN  INTRODUCTION  ix 

CLYDE  FITCH 

Introduction         ........          3 

Beau  Brummell II 

AUGUSTUS  THOMAS 

Introduction .        .        87 

The   Copperhead  .        .         .         ....        95 

GEORGE  S.  KAUFMAN  and  MARC  CONNELLY 

f  Introduction          .        .        .        .        .        .        .        ,165 

Dulcy .        .        .      170 

BOOTH  TARKINGTON 

Introduction '.  ...      251 

The  Intimate  Strangers       .         .        .        .         .         .      255 

SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY  FOR  THE  STUDY  OF  DRAMA 

IN  AMERICA         .       .       .       ....      .,;•      .       .347 


DRAMA  IN  AMERICA! 

AN  INTRODUCTION 

The  four  plays  in  this  volume  have,  with  one  exception,  been 
written  and  produced  since  1918.  Beau  Brummell  alone  has 
attained  the  dignity  of  years.  And  yet,  because  it  lacks  what 
is  commonly  called  "  structure,"  Clyde  Fitch's  comedy  of  over 
three  decades  ago  is  astonishingly  modern  in  method.  Its  sub 
ject  marks  it  as  belonging  to  the  succession  of  romantic  plays 
that  has  been  unbroken  since  the  eighteenth  century.  The 
Copperhead,  though  of  more  recent  date  than  Beau  Brummell, 
somewhat  resembles  in  workmanship  the  Civil  War  melodramas 
of  the  eighties  and  nineties  of  the  last  century.  In  theme,  The 
Copperhead  is  aligned  with  plays  on  kindred  subjects  that  began 
to  be  written  during  the  conflict  between  the  Colonies  and  Eng 
land  and  followed  the  trail  of  American  history  through  the 
difficulties  with  the  Barbary  States,  the  War  of  1812,  the 
j  Mexican  War  and  the  Civil  War.  Dulcy,  with  its  penetrating 
study  of  American  business  men  and  its  deadly  characterization 
of  a  droll  feminine  type,  and  The  Intimate  Strangers,  with  its 
wise  and  humorous  reflections  on  the  youngest  generation,  are  in 
a  sense  similar  in  motive  to  the  social  satires  which,  beginning 
with  The  Contrast^  have  appeared  from  time  to  time  on  our 
stage. 

Though  the  acted  play  can  be  exhaustively  studied  only  in 
New  York,  now  admittedly  the  center  of  theatrical  activity  in 
the  United  States,  the  vogue  of  the  printed  play  shows  how 
general  and  how  extended  is  an  intelligent  interest  in  the  theatre. 
A  collection  like  the  present  one  is  made  in  the  interests  of  a 
widely  distributed  reading  public.  The  growth  of  this  public 
is  more  or  less  coincident  with  a  dramatic  revival  that  took  place 
in  England  and  in  America  about  forty  years  ago.  As  Brander 
Matthews  has  recently  observed :  "  The  drama  of  our  language 
.  .  .  underwent  an  eclipse  in  the  midyears  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  There  was  then  a  divorce  between  literature  and  the 
drama  so  complete  that  the  plays  that  were  actable  were  unread- 


x  DRAMA  IN  AMERICA 

able  and  the  plays  which  were  readable  were  unactable.  But  a 
little  more  than  forty  years  ago  there  were  signs  of  a  reconcilia 
tion.  The  theatre  began  to  regain  its  old  popularity,  and  plays 
once  more  were  published  in  the  hope  that  the  verdict  of  the 
stage  might  be  confirmed  by  the  judgment  of  the  study." 

It  has  been  said  more  than  once  by  competent  critics  that  there 
was  no  American  drama  till  it  was  founded  in  1890  by  Clyde 
Fitch.  But  Bronson  Howard  came  before  Clyde  Fitch,  and 
plays  have  been  written  and  acted  in  the  United  States  ever  since 
the  years  following  the  close  of  the  French  and  Indian  Wars. 
The  Prince  of  Parthia,  a  romantic  tragedy  in  blank  verse,  was 
performed  in  1767  in  Philadelphia.  This  was  the  first  American 
play  to  be  acted  by  professionals.  It  was  composed  by  a  young 
poet,  Thomas  Godfrey.  He  had  been  a  pupil  of  William  Smith, 
Provost  of  the  College  of  Philadelphia,  later  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania,  the  scene  in  the  mid-eighteenth  century  of  sundry 
masques,  dialogues  and  entertainments  of  a  quasi-dramatic  char 
acter.  These  academic  exercises,  together  with  the  presence  of  a 
company  of  professional  actors  in  Philadelphia,  are  supposed  to 
have  quickened  Godfrey's  impulse  to  write  his  tragedy. 

The  scene  of  his  play  is  laid  in  Parthia  about  200  B.C.  The 
plot  suggests,  in  the  pairing  off  of  its  characters,  the  artificial 
symmetry  of  classical  French  tragedy  as  popularized  by  various 
English  dramatists  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries, 
and,  in  its  machinery  of  murders  and  supernatural  horrors,  the 
familiar  mechanisms  of  the  Elizabethan  tragedy  of  blood.  The 
lines, 

"E'en  the  pale  dead,  affrighted  at  the  hour, 
As  tho'  unsafe,  start  from  their  marble  goals, 
And  howling  thro'  the  streets  are  seeking  shelter," 

call  up  the  familiar  lines  to  a  similar  effect  in  Julius  Gasar, 

"And  graves  have  yawned  and  yielded  up  their  dead; 
And  ghosts  did  shriek  and  squeal  about  the  streets." 

A  fair  sample  of  the  quality  of  Godfrey's  play  is  to  be  found  in 
the  lines  of  Lysias,  spoken  as  a  soliloquy  within  the  precincts  of 
a  prison : 

"The  Sun  sets  frowning,  and  refreshing  Eve 
Lost  all  its  sweets,  obscur'd  in  double  gloom. 


DRAMA  IN  AMERICA  xi 

This  night  shall  sleep  be  stranger  to  these  eyes, 

Peace  dwells  not  here,  and  slumber  flies  the  shock; 

My  spirits,  like  the  elements,  are  warring, 

And  mock  the  tempest  with  a  kindred  rage — 

I,  who  can  joy  in  nothing,  but  revenge, 

Know  not  those  boasted  ties  of  Love  and  Friendship ; 

Vardanes  I  regard,  but  as  he  give  me 

Some  hopes  of  vengeance  on  the  Prince  Arsaces — 

3Tis  to  my  wish,  thus  would  I  form  designs, 

Horror  should  breed  beneath  the  veil  of  horror, 

And  darkness  and  conspiracies — " 

This  passage  is  hardly  distinguishable  in  intent,  at  any  rate,  from 
many  similar  speeches  in  the  sixteenth  century  tragedy  of 
revenge,  a  type  transcendently  represented  by  Hamlet. 

Twenty  years  elapsed  before  Royall  Tyler's  comedy  of  man 
ners,  The  Contrast,  was  acted  in  New  York  by  a  group  of  pro 
fessionals  who  called  themselves  the  "  Old  American  Company." 
This  period  was  something  of  an  interregnum  for  American 
playwrights.  The  lull  in  dramatic  activity  was  partly  the  result 
of  a  recommendation,  passed  by  the  Continental  Congress  in  its 
Articles  of  Association,  that  the  Colonists  "  discountenance  and 
discourage  all  horse  racing  and  all  kinds  of  gaming,  cock  fight 
ing,  exhibitions  of  shows,  plays  and  other  expensive  diversions 
and  entertainments."  1  But  the  British  officers  quartered  in 
the  Colonies  during  the  Revolutionary  War  seem  to  have  been 
devoted  to  theatricals.  They  are  in  no  small  measure  re 
sponsible  for  keeping  alive  the  interest  in  the  theatre  during 
the  years  between  Lexington  and  Yorktown.  General  Bur- 
goyne's  staff  presented  a  succession  of  English  plays  at  Faneuil 
Hall  in  Boston.  A  farce,  called  The  Blockade  of  Boston, 
that  may  well  have  been  written  by  Burgoyne  himself,  was 
among  the  pieces  attempted  in  the  historic  hall.  When 
it  was  produced  on  January  8,  1776,  its  performance  was 
interrupted  and  the  theatre  emptied  by  the  news  of 
the  attack  on  Bunker  Hill.  Major  Andre  also,  the  tragedy 
of  whose  life  was  soon  to  be  the  subject  of  a  number  of  early 
American  plays,  was  notable  as  a  moving  spirit  in  army  the 
atricals,  first  in  New  York  and  later  in  Boston.  He  supple 
mented  his  activities  as  playwright  and  manager  by  painting 
sets  of  scenes,  one  of  which  was  in  existence  till  1821  when 
the  Southwark  Theatre  in  Philadelphia  was  burned.  In  Percy 

1  Arthur  Hobson  Quinn,  The  Early  Drama,  1756-1860,  Cambridge 
History  of  American  Literature,  New  York,  1917,  Vol.  i,  p.  217. 


xii  DRAMA  IN  AMERICA 

MacKaye's  ballad  play,  Washington  the  Man  Who  Made  Us, 
acted  in  1920  by  Walter  Hampden,  the  foremost  Shakespearian 
actor  of  the  present  day  in  America,  an  engaging  picture  of 
Major  Andre's  activities  in  the  theatre  is  given. 

Two  years  before  the  British  finally  took  their  leave,  in 
spite  of  the  recommendations  of  the  Continental  Congress 
there  was  a  revival  of  theatrical  activity  of  a  professional  char 
acter  in  the  playhouses  of  Baltimore,  Annapolis,  and  New 
York.  The  first  American  comedy  to  be  acted  by  a  profes 
sional  company  in  the  post-Revolutionary  period  was  The 
Contrast  by  Royall  Tyler  (1757-1826),  shown  at  the  John 
Street  Theatre  in  New  York  in  1787.  Tyler,  a  New  Eng- 
lander,  came  to  New  York  as  an  aide  to  Major-General  Ben 
jamin  Lincoln,  to  help  put  down  Shay's  Rebellion.  While  in 
the  city  he  visited  a  theatre  for  the  first  time  and  saw  Sheri 
dan's  The  School  for  Scandal.  Two  days  later  he  began  his 
own  comedy  of  manners  and  finished  it  in  a  few  weeks.  When 
the  play  was  published  in  1790  by  the  actor  Thomas  Wignell, 
who  created  the  part  of  Jonathan,  and  to  whom  Tyler  had 
turned  over  the  copyright,  the  first  name  on  the  list  of  sub 
scribers  was  George  Washington's.1 

The  theme  of  the  play  is  not  unlike  the  central  idea  of  a 
recent  comedy,  Tarkington  and  Wilson's  The  Man  from 
Home.  There  is,  of  course,  no  similarity  at  all  in  the  plot 
or  characters.  In  both  plays,  however,  the  "  contrast "  be 
tween  a  certain  fine  native  dignity  and  an  artificiality  con 
ventionally  associated  with  foreigners  and  foreign  importa 
tions  is  played  up.  The  most  important  character  in  The 
Contrast  from  the  viewpoint  of  dramatic  history  is  the  servant, 
Jonathan,  who  is  the  first  of  a  long  line  of  stage  Yankees. 

There  is  an  undoubtedly  autobiographical  flavor  in  the  dia 
logue  which  takes  place  between  Tyler's  Jonathan  and  a  fellow 
servant,  in  which  the  Yankee's  reaction  to  his  first  play-going 
experience  is  embodied: 

"JENNY.     So,  Mr.  Jonathan,  I  hear  you  were  at  the  play  last  night. 
JONATHAN.    At  the  play!  why,  did  you  think  I  went  to  the  devil's 
drawing-room ! 

JENNY.     The  devil's  drawing-room! 

1  See  The  Contrast.  A  Comedy  in  Five  Acts,  by  Royall  Tyler, 
with  a  history  of  George  Washington's  copy  by  James  Benjamin 
Wilbur.  Boston  and  New  York,  1921. 


DRAMA  IN  AMERICA  xiii 

JONATHAN.  Yes;  why  an't  cards  and  dice  the  devil's  device,  and 
the  play-house  the  shop  where  the  devil  hangs  out  the  vanities  of 
the  world  upon  the  tenter-hooks  of  temptation.  I  believe  you  have 
not  heard  how  they  were  acting  the  old  boy,  one  night,  and  the 
wicked  one  came  among  them  sure  enough,  and  went  right  off  in  a 
storm,  and  carried  one  quarter  of  the  play-house  with  him.  Oh!  no, 


JONATHAN.  So  I  went  right  in,  and  they  showed  me  away,  clean 
up  to  the  garret,  just  like  meeting  house  gallery.  And  so  I  saw  a 
power  of  topping  folks,  all  sitting  around  in  little  cabins,  *  just  like 
father's  corn-cribs';  and  then  there  was  such  a  squeaking  with  the 
fiddles,  and  such  a  tarnal  blaze  with  the  lights,  my  head  was  near 
turned." 

William  Dunlap  (1766-1839)  is  called  for  reasons  hereafter 
to  be  catalogued  the  Father  of  the  American  Theatre.  He  is 
believed  to  have  been  incited  to  dramatic  composition  by  the 
success  of  his  slightly  older  contemporary,  Royall  Tyler.  Dun- 
lap  is  credited  with  writing  sixty-five  plays,  some  of  them 
adaptations  from  French  and  German  originals.  His  connec 
tion  with  the  theatre  was  not  confined  to  play  writing:  he 
was  for  nine  years  a  manager,  and  toward  the  end  of  his  life 
he  wrote  his  History  of  the  American  Theatre.  His  tragedy, 
^Andre,  performed  in  New  York  in  1798,  was  the  first  play 
acted  in  the  United  States  during  Washington's  lifetime  in 
which  the  latter  figured  as  a  character.  Andre  himself  proved 
to  be  a  favorite  character  in  early  American  plays.  In  Dun- 
lap's  Andre,  Washington  is  introduced  simply  as  General.  His 
righteous  indignation  is  restrained  by  the  mild-mannered  blank 
verse  in  which  the  play  is  written: 

"  Think'st  thou  thy  country  would  not  curse  the  man, 
Who,  by  a  clemency  ill-tim'd,  ill-judg'd, 
Encourag'd  treason?     That  pride  encourag'd, 
Which,  by  denying  us  the  rights  of  nations, 
Hath  caused  those  ills  which  thou  hast  now  pourtrayM? 
Our  prisoners,  brave  and  generous  peasantry, 
As  rebels  have  been  treated,  not  as  man. 
'Tis  mine,  brave  yeomen,  to  assert  your  rights; 
'Tis  mine  to  teach  the  foe,  that,  though  array'd 
In  rude  simplicity,  ye  yet  are  men, 
And  rank  among  the  foremost.     Oft  their  scouts, 
The  very  refuse  of  the  English  arms, 
Unquestion'd  have  our  countrymen  consign'd 
To  death,  when  captured,  mocking  their  agonies." 


xiv  DRAMA  IN  AMERICA 

Dunlap  is  also  remembered  by  students  of  American  literature 
as  the  friend  and  biographer  of  the  novelist  Charles  Brockden 
Brown. 

The  connection  of  Washington  Irving,  another  one  of  our 
first  men  of  letters,  with  early  American  drama  is  quite  direct. 
He  is  known  to  have  collaborated  with  John  Howard  Payne 
(1791-1852),  author  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"  in  more  than 
one  play.  Charles  II,  first  performed  in  London  in  1824,  was 
their  joint  venture.  "  In  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Washington 
Irving,  by  Pierre  Irving  (1883),  an  account  is  given  of  Irving's 
sending  the  manuscript  to  Payne  in  November,  1823,  after 
having  revised  it  and  added  to  it  some  new  ideas.  The  idea  of 
'  Captain  Copp  '  constantly  trying  to  sing  a  song  and  never 
being  able  to  complete  it,  was  conceived  by  Irving  to  meet 
the  English  taste  for  broad  fun.  In  the  introduction  by  Payne 
in  the  edition  of  1824  he  refers  to  the  literary  friend  to  whom 
he  is  '  indebted  for  invaluable  touches.'  "  1 

The  subjects  treated  by  American  playwrights  up  to  the 
end  of  the  nineteenth  century  fall  for  the  most  part  into  six 
categories:  the  Indians  and  frontier  life;  our  wars;  idiosyn 
crasies  of  American  character;  New  York  life;  American  so 
ciety  satirically  treated ;  and  the  romance  of  other  lands  or  other 
times  or  both.  For  thirty  years  or  more,  American  plays  have, 
owing  to  new  European  influences  and  native  genius,  become 
so  diversified  in  theme  and  treatment  that  the  fallacy  of  de 
scribing  American  drama  as  a  continuous  development  becomes 
plain.  The  topics  enumerated  continue  nevertheless  to  be 
popular  in  our  theatre. 

Indian  plays  began  to  be  written  for  our  stage  in  1794. 
Pocahontas  herself  figured  often  in  these  dramatic  versions  of 
the  ideal  Indian,  the  noble  red  man  of  Cooper's  imaginings. 
It  is  interesting  to  compare  the  simplicity  of  characterization 
in  James  W.  Barker's  (1784-1858)  The  Indian  Princess 
(1808)  with  the  characterization  based  on  intimate  observa 
tion  in  Mary  Austin's  The  Arrow  Maker  (1910).  In  the 
Indian  plays  of  the  early  nineteenth  century,  of  which  Barker's 
is  typical,  there  is  practically  no  attempt  to  present  the  cus 
toms,  folk  lore  or  psychology  of  the  American  Indian.  Bar- 

1  Arthur  Hobson  Quinn,  Representative  American  Plays,  New  York, 
1917,  p.  144. 


DRAMA  IN  AMERICA  xv 

ker's  Indian  princess,  to  turn  to  matters  of  form,  speaks  in 
prose,  unrhythmic  and  unimaginative.  At  a  moment,  when 
with  Captain  John  Smith's  head  actually  inclined  to  the  block, 
her  words  might  be  surcharged  with  emotion,  she  delivers  her 
self  as  follows: 

"Oh,  do  not,  warriors,  do  not!  Father,  incline  your  heart  to 
mercy;  he  will  win  your  battles,  he  will  vanquish  your  enemies! 
[First  Signal]  Brother,  speak!  save  your  brother!  Warriors,  are 
you  brave?  preserve  the  brave  man!  [Second  Signal}  Miami, 
priest,  sing  the  song  of  peace;  ah!  strike  not,  hold!  mercy!" 

The  blank  verse  of  Barker's  English  characters  hardly  lifts 
the  play  above  the  level  of  this  prose.1 

The  most  popular  of  the  early  Indian  plays  was  Metamora 
or  the  Last  of  the  Wampanoags  (1829),  by  John  Augustus 
Stone,  only  an  unprinted  fragment  of  which  survives  in  manu 
script.  This  play  had  a  career  which  lasted  for  ten  years. 
The  duration  of  its  popularity  is  attributed  to  the  distinguished 
acting  of  Edwin  Forrest  in  the  title  role.  Barker's  The 
Indian  Princess  and  Stone's  Metamora  are  for  our  purpose 
sufficiently  representative  of  the  stage  treatment  of  the  literary 
Indian,  which  persisted  well  into  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 
century. 

Collections  of  American  plays  made  within  the  last  few 
years  as  source  books  for  the  study  of  dramatic  art  contain 
only  comparatively  late  examples  of  the  frontier  drama  so 
closely  allied  in  subject  with  plays  about  Indians.  The  first 
of  these  frontier  dramas  in  point  of  time  is  The  Lion  of  the 
West  (1831),  by  James  K.  Spaulding,  which  introduced  the 
famous  character  of  Colonel  Nimrod  Wildfire,  a  prototype  of 
several  generations  of  backwoods  heroes.  Augustin  Daly,  one 
of  the  foremost  American  managers  of  the  last  generation,  pro 
duced,  in  1871,  another  outstanding  play  of  this  character 
called  Horizon,  which  ran  for  two  months.  Frank  Mur- 
dock's  Davy  Crockett  (1873),  also  a  study  of  frontier  life, 
was  pronounced  by  Laurence  Hutton  in  1891  to  be  "  almost 

1  Barker's  play,  Superstition  (1824),  resumes  the  seventeenth  century 
English  fashion  of  using  witchcraft  as  material  for  drama.  Here 
again  there  is  opportunity  for  comparison  between  the  early  nineteenth 
century  treatment  of  the  theme  and  Percy  MacKaye's  The  Scarecrow 
(1910). 


xvi  DRAMA  IN  AMERICA 

the  best  American  play  ever  written.  A  pure  sylvan  love- 
story,  told  in  a  healthful,  dramatic  way,  it  is  a  poem  in  four 
acts;  not  perfect  in  form,  open  to  criticism  with  faults  of  con 
struction,  failings  of  plots,  slight  improbabilities,  sensational 
situations,  and  literary  shortcomings,  but  so  simple  and  so  touch 
ing  and  so  pure  that  it  is  worthy  to  rank  with  any  of  the  crea 
tions  of  the  modern  stage  in  any  language.  The  character  of 
Davy  Crockett,  the  central  figure,  is  beautifully  and  artistically 
drawn:  a  strong  brave  young  hunter  of  the  Far  West;  bold 
but  unassuming;  gentle  but  with  a  strong  will;  skilled  in 
woodcraft  but  wholly  ignorant  of  the  ways  of  the  civilized 
world  he  had  never  seen;  capable  of  great  love  and  of  great 
sacrifice  for  his  love's  sake ;  shy,  sensitive  and  proud ;  unable  to 
read  or  to  write;  utterly  unconscious  of  his  own  physical 
beauty  and  of  his  own  heroism;  faithful,  honest,  truthful — in 
short  a  natural  gentleman."  1  Such  later  plays  as  Augustus 
Thomas's  Arizona  (1899)  and  In  Mizzoura  (1893)  and 
David  Belasco's  The  Girl  of  the  Golden  West  (1905)  may 
also  be  thought  of  as  belonging  to  the  category  of  frontier 
drama.  William  Vaughn  Moody 's  The  Great  Divide  (1906) 
represents  the  highest  achievement  of  the  native  dramatist  in 
the  treatment  of  this  theme.  Plays  of  frontier  life  continue  to 
be  popular  on  the  boards.  One  of  the  popular  successes  of 
the  New  York  theatrical  season  of  1920-21  was  Porter  Emer 
son  Brown's  The  Bad  Man,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  on  a 
cattle  ranch  near  the  Mexican  border  in  Arizona. 

Dunlap's  Andre,  already  mentioned,  is  one  of  a  number  of 
plays  that  employed  events  of  the  Revolutionary  War  as  their 
setting  and  their  subject.  New  testimony  to  the  persistent 
popularity  of  Andre's  name  is  found  in  the  revival  in  New 
York  in  February,  1922,  of  John  Jay  Chapman's  The  Treason 
and  Death  of  Benedict  Arnold.  Summing  up  this  aspect  of 
American  drama,  Quinn  writes :  "  Practically  every  great  event 
from  the  Boston  Tea  Party  to  the  Battle  of  Yorktown  was 
dramatized.  The  treason  of  Arnold  and  Andre's  capture  was 
a  favorite  theme  and  it  is  to  our  credit  that  Andre  usually  is 
a  heroic  figure.  Marion  and  Franklin  were  also  favorites,  but 

1  Laurence  Hutton,  Curiosities  of  the  American  Stage,  New  York, 
pp.  30-31. 


DRAMA  IN  AMERICA  xvii 

everyone  else  runs  a  bad  second  to  Washington  so  far  as  the 
stage  is  concerned."  1 

Though  the  list  of  characters  includes  no  historic  names,  a 
representative  play  of  the  War  of  1812  is  The  Triumph  at 
Plattsburg  (1830),  by  Richard  Penn  Smith  (1799-1859).  In 
two  acts  a  conventional  story  is  told  with  some  humor  of  the 
marriage  of  an  American  girl  to  a  British  officer,  and  the  com 
plications  arising  therefrom.  The  dialect  of  a  migrated 
Scotchman  decks  out  the  play  with  comic  touches.  How  de 
pendent  the  drama  of  English-speaking  peoples  has  been  since 
the  days  of  Shakespeare's  Henry  V  on  the  laughter  produced 
by  the  dialectic  difficulties  of  the  Welshman,  Frenchman,  Ger 
man,  Scotchman,  or  Irishman,  as  the  case  may  be! 

Plays  with  a  Civil  War  background  or  with  the  actual 
events  of  that  struggle  constituting  an  integral  part  of  their 
plot  have  been  common  since  the  eighties  of  the  last  century. 
The  leading  motive  in  most  of  them  has  been  the  temporarily 
thwarted  love  of  war-crossed  couples  whom  fate  and  the 
dramatist  have  assigned  to  opposite  sides  of  the  Mason  and 
Dixon  line.  Bronson  Howard's  Shenandoah  (1889)  marks 
the  progress  American  playwrights  were  making  in  learn 
ing  their  craft.  The  contrast  between  the  almost  childish 
work  of  Richard  Penn  Smith,  with  its  wandering  story,  and  the 
neatly  jointed  plot  of  Howard's  war  drama  is  striking.  The 
dialogue,  too,  of  the  American  war  play  had  grown  in  im- 
pressiveness.  In  Richard  Harding  Davis's 2  charming;  and 
delicate  fiction,  The  Princess  Aline  (1896),  we  have  the  hero, 
to  further  his  own  suit,  referring  appreciatively  to  the  situa 
tion  embodied  in  these  lines  from  Shenandoah: 

"  GERTRUDE.    Your  wound ! 

KERCHIVAL.  Wound !  I  have  no  wound.  You  do  love  me !  [Seiz 
ing  her  hand.'] 

GERTRUDE.    Let  me  call  the  Surgeon,  Kerchival. 

KERCHIVAL.  You  can  be  of  more  service  to  me  than  he  can.  [De 
taining  her.  Very  heavy  sounds  of  the  battle;  she  starts,  listening.'] 
Never  mind  that!  It's  only  a  battle.  You  love  me!" 

1  Arthur  Hobson  Quinn,   The  Early  Drama,  1756-1860,   Cambridge 
History  of  American  Literature,  New  York,  1917,  Vol.  i,  p.  225. 

2  Richard  Harding  Davis  himself  belongs  to  the  history  of  American 
drama;  a  list  of  his  plays  would  include  The  Galloper,  The  Dictator^ 
The  Yankee  Consul,  and  Miss  Civilization. 


xviii  DRAMA  IN  AMERICA 

Other  popular  plays  written  about  Civil  War  incidents  or 
consequences,  to  mention  but  a  few,  are  William  Gillette's 
Held  by  the  Enemy  (1886)  and  Secret  Service  (1896),  Au 
gustus  Thomas's  Alabama  (1891),  David  Belasco's  The  Heart 
of  Maryland  (1895),  James  A.  Herne's  Griffith  Davenport 
(1899),  and  Clyde  Fitch's  Barbara  Frietchie  of  the  same  year. 
The  effect  of  the  Great  War  upon  American  drama  cannot 
yet  be  calculated.  The  plays  on  the  subject  by  native  writers 
remembered  by  the  average  playgoer  are  The  Crowded  Hour 
(1918),  by  Edgar  Selwyn  and  Channing  Pollock,  in  which  a 
scene  at  a  telephone  switchboard  behind  the  lines  invites  com 
parison  with  the  telegraph  office  scene  in  Gillette's  Secret 
Service;  James  Forbes's  The  Famous  Mrs.  Fair  (1919),  which 
presents  a  not  uncommon  type  of  modern  woman  in  the  light 
of  her  reactions  to  war  conditions;  Booth  Tarkington's  Clar 
ence  (1919),  the  comedy  in  which  arises  from  the  dryly  hu 
morous  response  of  the  scientific  temperament  to  army  life 
and  post-war  employment  conditions;  and  Gilbert  Emery's 
The  Hero  (1921),  in  which  the  tragedy  springs  from  irrecon 
cilable  conflicts  in  the  character  of  the  "  hero." 

At  the  present  time  there  are  comparatively  few  plays  being 
written  for  the  purpose  of  presenting  the  peculiarities  of  the 
typical  American.  The  nearest  approach  in  our  current 
theatrical  output  to  the  character  play  popular  in  the  early 
and  middle  years  of  the  nineteenth  century  are  productions  like 
Alice  Brown's  Children  of  Earth  (1915),  Augustus  Thomas's 
Palmy  Days  (1919),  and  Winchell  Smith  and  Frank  Bacon's 
Lightnin  (1918).  The  earliest  Jonathan  in  Tyler's  The 
Contrast  had  many  successors,  one  of  the  best  known 
being  Jonathan  Plowboy  in  The  Forest  Rose  (1825),  a  "pas 
toral  opera "  by  Samuel  Woodworth,  author  of  "  The  Old 
Oaken  Bucket."  Woodworth's  Jonathan  Plowboy  "  speaks 
a  dialect  that  was  then  supposed  to  prevail  among  the  less 
enlightened  inhabitants  of  New  England  and  especially  of  Con 
necticut.  Jonathan,  like  all  his  kin,  never  supposes  or  thinks; 
he  '  calculates  '  or  '  guesses/  Instead  of  asking  he  *  axes.'  He 
finds  *  an't '  more  economical  than  *  is  not.'  He  declares  that 
'  he  wouldn't  sarve  a  negro  so.'  His  favorite  expletive  is 
1  darn,'  or  for  variety  *  darnation  '  used  both  as  a  noun  and ! 
an  adjective.  His  speech  is  full  of  homely  comparisons  per- 


DRAMA  IN  AMERICA  xix 

taining  to  cows,  pigs,  etc.  .  .  .  His  part  in  the  plot  ...  is  not 
vital,  his  function  being  chiefly  to  provide  comic  realism."  1 

The  part  of  Uncle  Nat  in  Shore  Acres  (1892),  written  and 
acted  by  James  A.  Herne,  continued  the  tradition  of  the 
American  countryman  with  such  added  touches  of  artistry  as 
lifted  conventional  characterization  into  the  realm  of  realism. 
Herne's  American  portraits  were  the  delight  of  the  playgoers 
of  a  generation  ago.  Henry  George,  the  eminent  economist 
and  publicist,  expressed  his  enthusiasm  for  Uncle  Nat  in  a 
well-known  letter  to  Herne.  "  I  cannot  too  much  congratu 
late  you,"  he  wrote,  "  upon  your  success.  You  have  done 
what  you  sought  to  do — made  a  play  pure  and  noble  that 
people  will  come  to  hear.  You  have  taken  the  strength  of 
realism  and  added  to  it  the  strength  that  comes  from  the  wider 
truth  that  realism  fails  to  see;  and  in  the  simple  portrayal  of 
homely  life,  touched  a  universal  chord."  2 

Herne's  plays  have  none  of  them  appeared  in  print.  Our 
knowledge  of  many  other  productions  significant  in  the  history 
of  the  stage  in  America  comes  to  us  also  from  the  reminiscences 
of  contemporaries  or  the  records  of  descendants.  These  pro 
ductions  live  in  our  records,  because  they  offered  rare  oppor 
tunities  to  the  character  actors  of  their  day.  Solon  Shingle, 
a  Massachusetts  type  from  The  People's  Lawyer  (1839),  by 
J.  S.  Jones;  Judge  Bardwell  Slote,  the  low  politician  from 
The  Mighty  Dollar  ( 1875),  by  Benjamin  Woolf ;  Colonel  Mul 
berry  Sellers,  the  Southerner  from  the  dramatization  of  Mark 
Twain  and  Charles  Dudley  Warner's  The  Gilded  Age 
(1874);  and  Joshua  Whitcomb  from  The  Old  Homestead 
(1885),  are  remembered  because  created  severally  by  Charles 
Burke,  W.  J.  Florence,  John  T.  Raymond,  and  Denman 
Thompson,  actors  of  charmed  memory.  Even  the  present  gen 
eration  knows  that  most  popular  of  all  American  stage  char 
acters,  Rip  Van  Winkle,  from  the  play  of  the  same  name. 
Washington  Irving's  story  was  first  dramatized  in  1829.  The 
version  made  famous  in  recent  years  by  Joseph  Jefferson  ( 1829- 


1Oral  Sumner  Coad:  The  Plays  of  Samuel  Woodworth,  The 
Sewanee  Review,  Sewanee,  1919,  Vol.  27,  p.  168. 

2  Quoted  by  Barrett  H.  Clark  in  The  British  and  American  Drama 
of  To-day,  New  York,  1915,  p.  232. 


xx  DRAMA  IN  AMERICA 

1905)  is  the  cumulative  work  of  many  hands,  including  Jef 
ferson's  own. 

To  the  fifth  class  of  subjects  that  have  been  enumerated  as 
most  popular  on  the  American  stage  belong  the  plays  about 
New  York  life.  Perhaps  their  nature  can  best  be  understood 
if  we  think  of  them  as  paralleling  the  topical  interest  of  a  con 
temporary  play  like  Augustus  Thomas's  dramatization  of  the 
Chimmie  Fadden  stories  of  Edward  W.  Townsend,  or  the 
sentimental  appeal  of  a  piece  such  as  Rida  Johnson  Young's 
Little  Old  New  York  (1920).  It  will  be  recalled  by  those 
who  saw  Little  Old  New  York,  which  professed  to  reproduce 
the  social  life  of  the  city  a  century  ago,  that  the  Volunteer 
Fire  Department  played  an  important  part  in  accelerating  the 
interest.  In  1848,  a  play  called  A  Glance  at  New  York,  the 
first  of  a  numerous  family  of  New  York  character  plays  that 
held  the  stage  for  the  next  thirty  years,  ran  for  twelve  weeks 
in  the  city  the  life  of  which  it  described.  It  is  said  to  have 
been  a  mere  hodge-podge  with  no  artistic  merit  of  any  kind, 
but  it  proved  a  success  because  of  the  acting  of  a  certain  F.  S. 
Chanfrau  who  took  the  part  of  Mose,  a  "  B'hoy  "  or  tough  of 
that  day  who  ran  with  the  fire  wagons.  "  He  wore,"  accord 
ing  to  Laurence  Hutton's  description,  "  the  soap  locks  of  the 
period,  the  *  plug  hat/  with  a  narrow  black  band,  the  red 
shirt,  the  trousers  turned  up — without  which  the  genus  was 
never  seen — and  he  had  a  peculiarly  sardonic  curve  of  the  lip. 
,.  .  .  Mr.  Chanfrau's  Mose  hit  the  popular  fancy  at  once, 
and  retained  it  until  the  Volunteer  Fire  Department  was  dis 
banded." 

Another  development  of  the  play  concerned  with  the  rough 
and  tumble  elements  of  the  city  is  found  in  the  productions  of 
Edward  Harrigan  and  Tony  Hart  that  began  in  1876.  Their 
plays,  the  names  of  two  of  the  best  known  of  which  are  Old 
^Lavender  (1877)  and  The  Mulligan  Guards'  Ball  (1870), 
were  a  lightly  cohering  succession  of  characters  and  incidents 
peculiar  to  New  York,  the  comedians  of  the  company  imper 
sonating  local  Irish,  Negro,  or  German  types.  Charles  Hoyfs 
farces  of  twenty  years  later  use  the  peculiarities  of  the  New 
York  scene  for  their  effects.  Walter  Pritchard  Eaton  sees  in 
these  burlesques  of  Harrigan  and  Hart  and  in  the  Hoyt  farces 
the  direct  antecedents  of  the  plays  of  those  contemporary  hu 
morists,  George  Ade  and  George  Cohan,  whose  work,  as  it 


DRAMA  IN  AMERICA  xxi 

appears  on  the  stage  to-day,  is  being  closely  followed  by  those 
who  are  interested  in  the  history  of  drama  in  America. 

Tyler  wrote  The  Contrast,  as  we  have  seen,  after  a  visit  to 
The  School  for  Scandal.  Satirical  studies  of  American 
manners  have  since  been  frequent  in  the  theatre.  Often 
they  have  been  studies  of  society  life  in  New  York  or  in  resorts 
or  suburbs  whither  the  characteristic  social  life  has  been  trans 
ferred.  One  of  the  best  known  of  American  social  satires, 
Fashion,  by  Anna  Cora  Mowatt  Ritchie,  dramatist  and  actress, 
was  produced  in  New  York  in  1845.  It  was,  it  is  interesting 
to  note,  reviewed  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe  in  the  Broadway  Journal 
of  March  29  of  that  year.  In  this  play  the  juxtaposition  of 
Americans,  Europeans,  and  Americans  who  have  lived  abroad 
reminds  one  of  the  persons  to  be  met  with  in  the  novels  of 
Henry  James.  Mrs.  Mowatt,  as  she  was  when  she  wrote 
Fashion,  evidently  knew  her  Moliere  well,  for  there  are  scenes 
in  the  play  that  show  plainly  the  influence  of  situations  in  Les 
Femmes  Savantes  and  Le  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme.  Snobbishness 
and  title-mongering  are  the  particular  objects  of  Mrs.  Mowatt's 
attack.  Bronson  Howard's  Saratoga  (1870)  is  a  play  of  the 
same  type  as  Fashion.  It  seems  even  less  indigenous  than  Mrs. 
Mowatt's  play.  The  several  scenes  laid  in  the  old  Academy 
of  Design  in  New  York  and  at  Congress  Springs  in  Saratoga 
provide  local  color  in  a  diluted  form.  The  locale  was  Ameri 
can  even  though  the  maneuvers  of  the  New  York  society  folk 
who  people  the  play  were  manipulated  after  the  English  and 
French  models  popular  in  the  American  theatre  of  the  day. 

The  same  Clyde  Fitch  who  could  turn  out  romantic  period 
plays  like  Beau  Brummell  and  Captain  Jinks  of  the  Horse 
Marines  was  even  more  emphatically  master  of  the  play  used 
for  purposes  of  social  satire.  The  Climbers  (1901)  is  second 
only  perhaps  to  Langdon  Mitchell's  The  New  York  Idea 
(1906),  which,  according  to  the  authoritative  judgment  of 
Arthur  Hobson  Quinn,  "represents  American  social  comedy  at 
its  best."  In  1918  a  satirical  social  comedy,  Why  Marry?  by 
Jesse  Lynch  Williams,  won  the  Pulitzer  prize  at  Columbia 
University  for  the  best  play  of  the  year,  that  same  prize  which 
has  since  been  carried  off  by  two  strictly  realistic  plays  of 
small  town  or  rural  American  life,  Eugene  O'Neill's  Beyond 
the  Horizon  and  Zona  Gale's  Miss  Lulu  Bettt  both  unrelenting 
and  unrelieved  presentations  of  actualities. 


xxii  DRAMA  IN  AMERICA 

The  romantic  play  continues  to  perpetuate  itself  in  our  stage 
history.  As  romantic  poetic  drama,  The  Prince  of  Parthia  was 
the  forerunner  of  such  later  plays  as  Robert  Montgomery  Bird's 
The  Broker  of  Bogota  (1834),  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis's 
Tortesa  the  Usurer  (1839),  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow's 
The  Spanish  Student  (1843),  George  Henry  Boker's  Francesca 
da  Rimini  (1855),  and  the  verse  dramas  of  Thomas  Bailey 
Aldrich,  Josephine  Preston  Peabody,  Cale  Young  Rice,  Percy 
MacKaye,  and  Olive  Tilford  Dargan. 

Boker's  treatment  of  the  Francesca  story  is  more  skillful 
dramatically  than  Stephen  Phillips'  handling  of  the  same  mate 
rial.  The  English  poet's  Paolo  and  Francesca  was  written  after 
Tennyson  had  shown  the  possibilities  of  new  and  lovelier 
cadences  in  English  blank  verse,  yet  the  lines  of  Boker's  here 
reprinted  are  representative  of  many  other  passages  of  real 
poetry  in  the  American  play: 

"PAOLO.     .  .  .  And  now  for  the  romance.    Where  left  we  off? 

FRANCESCA.    Where  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guenevra  strayed 

Along  the  forest,  in  the  Youth  of  May. 

You  marked  the  figure  of  the  birds  that  sang 

Their  melancholy  farewell  to  the  sun — 

Rich  in  his  loss,  their  sorrow  glorified — 

Like  gentle  mourners  o'er  a  great  man's  grave. 

Was  it  not  there?     No,  no;  'twas  when  they  sat 

Down  on  the  bank,  by  one  impulsive  wish 

That  neither  uttered." 

'Francesca    da    Rimini    was    successfully    revived,    with    Otis 
Skinner  in  the  young  lover's  part,  as  lately  as  1901. 

Kenneth  Macgowan,  analyzing  critically  the  tendencies 
that  are  showing  themselves  in  contemporary  drama,  in  his 
challenging,  brilliant,  and  sophisticated  book,  The  Theatre  of 
Tomorrow,  predicts  a  revival  of  interest  in  the  poetic  drama  of 
romance,  and  suggests  that  Sidney  Howard's  Swords,  produced 
in  New  York  in  1921,  and  Percy  MacKaye's  A  Thousand 
Years  'Ago  (1913)  hint  at  the  possibility  that  free  verse  and 
blank  verse  may  be  so  manipulated,  so  alternated,  as  to  become 
less  mannered  and  more  expressive  for  the  purpose  of  the 
drama.  "  There  may  be/'  he  has  written,  "  verse  in  the 
future  drama,  plenty  of  it;  but  it  will  not  be  limited  to  a 
single  measure.  It  will  fit  the  emotion  of  the  scenes  and 
change  as  the  emotion  changes." 


DRAMA  IN  AMERICA  xxiii 

As  illustrative  of  the  responsiveness  to  varying  moods  of 
Percy  MacKaye's  verse  two  passages  have  been  chosen  from  his 
version  of  the  Turandot  legend,  A  Thousand  Years  Ago.  The 
first  is  a  speech  of  the  strolling  actor  Capocomico : 

"Precisely,  my  bully-boy! 

What  would  you? — At  home,  half  the  world  is  dyspeptic 
With  pills  of  reformers  and  critics  and  realists. 
Fun  for  its  own  sake? — Pho,  it's  old-fashioned! 
Art  with  a  mask  on? — Unnaturalistic, 

They  warn  you,  and  scowl,  and  wag  their  sad  periwigs. — 
So  ive — the  unmatched,  immortal,  Olympian 
Maskers  of  Antic, — we,  troop  of  the  tragical, 
Symbolical,  comical,  melodramatical 
Commedia  dell'Arte — we,  once  who  by  thousands 
Enchanted  to  laughter  the  children  of  Europe- 
Behold  us  now,  packed  out  of  town  by  the  critics 
To  wander  the  world,  hobble-heel,  tatter-elbowed, 
Abegging  our  way — four  vagabond-players, 
And  one  master  director — me,  Capocomico !  " 

But   MacKaye's   meter   provides   other   music   for   the   lover 
Calaf's  words: 

"Forget? 

Forget  that  night?     That  night  I  died  indeed, 
And  rose  from  out  the  river's  chilly  death 
Into  strange  paradise:  A  garden,  walled 
With  roses  round:  A  moon,  that  zoned  with  pearl 
A  spirit  there:  a  lady,  garbed  in  gold 
And  her  more  golden  smile!     Wrapt  in  disguise — 
A  beggar's  cloak,  which  you  had  hid  me  in, 
The  river's  ooze  still  staining  me  with  slime — 
On  me — me,  outcast  and  destroyed,  she  smiled, 
And  tossed  for  alms  the  white  rose  from  her  hair! — 

[Taking  from  his  bosom  a  withered  rose,  he  looks  on 

it  rapturously.] 
My  deathless  rose !  " 

The  romantic  play  in  prose  is  more  frequent  in  the  course 
of  American  drama  than  the  romantic  play  in  verse  and  has 
ordinarily  been  more  successful  on  the  stage.  The  style  of 
acting  common  in  the  seventies  encouraged  the  composition  of 
melodramas  characterized  by  rank  romantic  extravagances. 
Examples  of  a  progressively  more  restrained  manner  in  ro 
mantic  prose  plays  are  Steele  MacKaye's  Hazel  Kirke  (1880) 
and  Paul  Kauvar,  or  Anarchy  (1887),  Madame  Butterfly 
(1900),  by  John  Luther  Long  and  David  Belasco,  The  Scare- 


xxiv  DRAMA  IN  AMERICA 

crow  (1910),  by  Percy  MacKaye,  Kismet  (1911),  by  Edward 
Knoblock,  and  Romance  (1913),  by  Edward  Sheldon.  The 
'Emperor  Jones  (1920),  by  Eugene  O'Neill,  dramatizing  in  all 
their  strangeness  and  beauty  negro  folk  superstitions  against  a 
tangled  jungle  background,  is  one  of  the  latest  and  most  im 
pressive  of  the  romantic  plays.  Imaginative  phantasies  like 
Eleanor  Gates's  The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl  (1913)  and  George 
Hazelton  and  J.  H.  Benrimo's  The  Yellow  Jacket  (1912), 
have  plainly  no  precedent  in  the  earlier  history  of  our 
drama. 

Likewise  new  to  the  tradition  of  the  American  stage  are  such 
plays  as  Clyde  Fitch's  The  Truth  (1906),  Eugene  Walter's 
The  Easiest  Way  (1909),  Charles  Kenyon's  Kindling  (1911), 
Edward  Sheldon's  Salvation  Nell  (1908),  The  Nigger 
(1909),  and  The  Boss  (1911),  Rachel  Crothers's  He  and  She 
(1911),  Joseph  Medill  Patterson's  Rebellion  (1911),  Louis  K. 
Anspacher's  The  Unchastened  Woman  (1915),  a  comedy  of 
which  William  Lyon  Phelps  has  said  that  it  "  would  be  a  credit 
to  any  dramatist  in  the  world,"  Frank  Craven's  The  First 
Year  (1920),  Arthur  Richman's  Ambush  (1921),  and  Eugene 
O'Neill's  Anna  Christie  (1921). 

The  contribution  of  Bronson  Howard,  whose  work  has 
several  times  been  mentioned  in  passing,  should  certainly  be 
singled  out  for  special  comment  even  in  so  brief  a  treatment 
of  the  subject  as  the  present  one.  At  a  time  when  American 
managers  were  afraid  to  la^el  plays  as  native  products, 
Howard  forced  A.  M.  Palmer,  the  manager,  to  advertise  The 
Banker's  Daughter  as  an  American  comedy,  thus  establishing  a 
precedent  for  American  plays  that  were  not  mere  adaptations. 
In  an  address  delivered  at  Harvard,  1886,  Howard  enumerated 
the  following  as  important  considerations  in  the  construction 
of  a  play : 

"I.    The  actual  strength  of  the  main  incident  of  a  play. 
II.     Relative   strength  of  the  main  incident,   in    reference  to   the 
importance  of  the  subject;   and  also  the  length  of  the  play. 

III.  Adequacy  of  the  story  in  relation  to  the  importance  and  dig 
nity  of  the  main  incident  and  of  the  subject. 

IV.  Adequacy  of  the   original  motives  on  which  the  rest  of  the 
play  depends. 

V.     Logical    sequence   of   events   by   which   the   main    incident   is 
reached. 

yi.     Logical  results  of  the  story  after  the  main  incident  is  passed. 


DRAMA  IN  AMERICA  xxv 

VII.  The  choice  of  the  characters  by  which  the  sequence  of  events 
is  determined. 

VIII.  Logical,  otherwise  natural,  use  of  motives  in  these  particular 
characters,  in  leading  from  one  incident  to  another. 

IX.  The  use  of  such  human  emotions  and  passions  as  are  uni 
versally  recognized  as  true,  without  those  special  explanations  which 
belong  to  general  fiction  and  not  to  the  stage. 

X.    The  relation  of  the  story  and  incidents  to  the  sympathies  of 
the  audience  as  a  collection  of  human  beings. 

XI.  The  relation  of  the  story  and  incidents  to  the  sympathies  of 
the  particular  audience  for  which  the  play  is  written;  to  its  knowl 
edge  and  ignorance;  its  views  of  life;  its  social  customs;  and  to  its 
political  institutions,  so  far  as  they  may  modify  its  social  views,  as  in 
the  case  of  a  democracy  or  an  autocracy. 

Minor  matters — such  as  the  use  of  comic  relief,  the  relation  of 
dialog  to  action,  the  proper  use  of  superfluous  characters  to  prevent 
an  appearance  of  artificiality  in  the  treatment,  and  a  thousand  other 
details  belonging  to  the  constructive  side  of  a  play — must  also  be 
within  the  critic's  view."  1 

Howard's  theories  taken  in  conjunction  with  his  seventeen 
plays  influenced  profoundly  the  development  of  native  Ameri 
can  drama. 

No  survey  of  American  actors  has  been  attempted  in  this 
sketch.  It  is  obvious,  however,  that  one  cannot  really  appreci 
ate  the  circumstances  under  which  American  plays  have  been 
written  unless  one  is  familiar  with  the  art  of  Edwin  Forrest, 
Charlotte  Cushman,  the  Jeflersons,  the  Wallacks,  Edwin 
Booth,  John  McCullough,  John  T.  Raymond,  Mary  Anderson, 
the  Hacketts,  the  Drews,  the  Barrymores,  Richard  Mansfield, 
the  Sotherns,  Otis  Skinner,  Julia  Marlowe,  Margaret  Anglin, 
Minnie  Maddern  Fiske,  Augustin  Daly's  stock  company  of  the 
eighties,2  and  Daniel  Frohman's  Lyceum  Stock  Company  of  the 
nineties.  These  do  not  exhaust  the  names  that  glorify  the 
history  of  our  stage,  or  begin  to  suggest  the  ramifications  of 

1  The  Autobiography  of  a  Play,  by  Bronson  Howard,  with  an  Intro 
duction  by  Augustus  Thomas,  Dramatic  Museum  of  Columbia   Uni 
versity,  New  York,  1914. 

2  Charles  Pike   Sawyer,  writing  of  the  halcyon   days,   in   a   recent 
newspaper   article,    refers   to   "that    great   revival   by   Daly   of    The 
Taming    of    the    Shrew,    in    its    entirety,    in    October,    1887,    when, 
William    Gilbert    gave    that    delightful    performance   of    Christopher 
Sly  in  the  induction.     And   such   a  cast  there   was:   Charles   Fisher, 
Otis   Skinner,  John   Drew,   George   Clarke,    Charles   Leclercq,   Joseph 
Holland,  James  Lewis,  Frederick  Bond,  Ada  Rehan,  Virginia  Dreher, 
Jean    Gordon,    and    Mrs.   G.    H.    Gilbert,   to   say   nothing   of   Master 
Willie  Collier,  employed  as  call-boy  and  playing  small  parts." 


xxvi  DRAMA  IN  AMERICA 

the  star  system  to  which  the  stock  companies  gave  place  in  the 
organization  of  the  theatre. 

Nor  has  any  space  been  given  to  the  history  of  theatrical 
management  and  methods  of  production,  though,  of  course,  it 
is  generally  understood  "  that  the  dramatic  art  of  a  period 
made  up  not  alone  of  the  plays  that  are  presented,  but  of  the 
entire  institution  of  the  theatre  of  the  time,  comprising  its 
actors,  its  producers,  its  managers,  its  agents,  its  many  artists 
and  workers  as  well  as  its  writers.  The  drama  of  the  time 
is  the  whole  institution  of  the  stage  of  the  time."  *  The  fact 
that  in  his  day  Augustin  Daly  leaned  toward  German  adapta 
tions,  that  A.  M.  Palmer  in  turn  gave  the  preference  to 
French  plays,  that  David  Belasco  worked  at  literally  realistic 
stage  settings  and  revolutionized  stage  lighting,  that  Charles 
and  Daniel  Frohman  wisely  brought  Arthur  W.  Pinero,  James 
M.  Barrie,  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  and  other  English  playwrights 
to  the  attention  of  the  American  public,  and  that  Arthur  Hop 
kins  assembled  and  coordinated  the  various  arts  of  the  theatre 
in  making  his  productions,  is  plainly  significant.  The  pooling 
of  theatrical  interests  by  1896,  the  fight  against  the  "  Theatrical 
Trust "  carried  on  by  certain  actors,  the  recent  break-up  of 
the  monster  combination — all  these  circumstances  have  had  an 
obvious  and  vital  bearing  on  American  drama.  Experimental 
producers  like  the  Theatre  Guild  and  the  Provincetown 
Players,  both  in  New  York,  have  made  every  effort  to  encour 
age  the  American  playwright.  The  plays  of  Susan  Glaspell 
and  of  Eugene  O'Neill  have  provided  more  than  one  bill  for 
the  second  of  these  groups. 

Such  exponents  of  the  new  art  of  the  theatre  as  Robert 
Edmond  Jones,  Norman-bel  Geddes,  Lee  Simonson,  and  Rollo 
Peters,  designers  of  interpretive  scenery,  are  helping  at  this 
minute  to  determine  what  the  American  drama  of  the  future 
is  to  be  like.  Out  of  the  development  of  a  device  like  the 
Clavilux,  or  color  organ,  of  Thomas  Wilfred  may  come  an  art 
of  mobile  color  suitable  as  the  background  or  the  accompani 
ment  of  drama,  that  will  suggest  the  creation  of  new  dramatic 
forms. 

The  actors,  the  managers,  and  the  artists  have  their  place  and 
importance  in  the  scheme  of  the  theatre,  but  the  controlling 

1  T.  H.  Dickinson,  The  Case  of  American  Drama,  Boston  and  New 
York,  1915,  p.  183. 


DRAMA  IN  AMERICA  xxvii 

force  in  the  development  of  the  drama  will  always  be  the  play 
wright.  At  the  moment  the  commanding  figure  among  the 
younger  generation  of  American  dramatists  is  Eugene  O'Neill. 
His  early  contact  with  the  stage  through  his  father  James 
O'Neill,  the  colorful  adventures  of  his  young  manhood,  a  period 
of  serious  ill  health,  and  a  desultory  though  amazing  education, 
culminating  in  study  at  Harvard  in  the  dramatic  workshop  of 
George  Pierce  Baker,  are,  all  of  them,  experiences  vitally  influ 
encing  the  molds  in  which  his  ideas  are  cast.  The  subjects 
that  seem  most  to  interest  him  are  the  sea,  the  jungle,  the  human 
being  warped  physically  or  morally,  and  the  grosser  inequalities 
of  society.  O'Neill  has  been  writing  for  nine  years.  In  that 
time  his  sense  of  artistry  has  caused  him  to  destroy  eighteen  out 
of  the  forty-one  plays  that  he  has  completed.  His  vigor  and  ex 
pressiveness,  his  strength  and  imagination,  and  his  experiments 
with  a  new  and  original  dramatic  technique  combine  to  secure 
for  him  a  conspicuous  position  among  contemporary  American 
playwrights.  He  represents  nothing  like  a  new  school  in 
American  drama,  but  his  work  illustrates  forces  that  are  abroad 
in  the  theatre  to-day. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL* 

By 
CLYDE  FITCH 


*  Copyright,  1908,  by  Little,  Brown,  and  Company.  All  rights 
reserved. 

This  play  is  fully  protected  by  the  copyright  law,  all  requirements 
of  which  have  been  complied  with.  In  its  present  printed  form  it  is 
dedicated  to  the  reading  public  only,  and  no  performance  of  it  may 
be  given  without  the  written  permission  of  Mrs.  Richard  Mansfield, 
owner  of  the  acting  rights,  who  may  be  addressed  in  care  of  the 
publishers. 

The  subjoined  is  an  extract  from  the  law  relating  to  copyright. 

SEC.  4966.  Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing  any 
dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which  a  copyright  has  been 
obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of  said  dramatic  or 
musical  composition,  or  his  heirs  or  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for 
damages  therefor,  such  damages  in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such 
sum  not  less  than  $100.00  for  the  first  and  $50.00  for  every  subsequent 
performance,  as  to  the  court  shall  appear  to  be  just. 

If  the  unlawful  performance  and  representation  be  willful  and  for 
profit,  such  person  or  persons  shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor  and 
upon  conviction  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year. 


Clyde  Fitch,  author  of  Beau  Brummell  and  of  fifty  other 
plays,  some  of  them  adaptations,1  was  born  May  2,  1865,  at 
Elmira,  New  York.  Part  of  his  childhood  was  passed  at 
Schenectady;  and  William  Lyon  Phelps  speaks  of  having  been 
a  schoolmate  of  Fitch's  at  Hartford,  Connecticut.  His  college 
days  were  spent  at  Amherst,  from  which  he  was  graduated  in 
1886.  Active  as  an  undergraduate  in  theatricals,  his  imper 
sonation  of  that  sentimental  heroine,  Lydia  Languish,  became 
especially  famous.  At  his  death  it  was  found  that  he  had 
made  provision  in  his  will  for  the  endowment  of  a  professor 
ship  at  Amherst.  The  college  also  has  fallen  heir  to  his 
library. 

He  began  his  literary  career  by  writing  children's  stories, 
that  were  published  in  the  Independent  and  in  the  Christian 
Union.  Before  he  gave  himself  up  wholly  to  the  theatre,  he 
also  essayed  verse  and  short  stories.  But  only  three  years  after 
his  graduation  from  college,  he  wrote  Beau  Brummell,  and 
from  that  date,  until  his  death  twenty  years  later,  he  was 
engaged  uninterruptedly  in  turning  out  the  plays  that  secured 
him  fame  and  fortune. 

He  lived  in  New  York  and  had  country  houses  at  various 
times  at  Katonah,  New  York,  and  at  Greenwich,  Connecticut. 
According  to  the  editors  of  the  memorial  edition  of  his  plays: 
"  In  one  respect  it  may  be  said  that  from  the  time  Clyde 
Fitch  began  to  be  regarded  as  America's  most  popular  play 
wright,  each  year  found  him  externally  doing  the  same  things 
— fulfilling  contracts,  selecting  casts,  arranging  rehearsals,  and 
attending  'openings.'  Faster  and  faster  grew  the  whirl  of 
routine  until,  during  the  last  year  of  his  life,  he  was  attempting 
sufficient  to  undermine  the  health  of  the  strongest  man.  Every 
year  found  him  abroad,  noting  with  the  quick  eye  of  the 
trained  expert  what  was  best  in  the  Continental  theatres,  and 
meeting  Charles  Frohman  or  some  other  American  manager 
in  order  to  read  a  manuscript  or  to  talk  over  an  embryo 

1  For  a  complete  list  of  his  plays,  see  Montrose  J.  Moses,  The 
American  Dramatist,  Boston,  1911,  pp.  171-172. 

3 


4      '"  ** :     : '  •'*  BEAU'BRUMMELL 

comedy.  It  was  the  life  of  a  successful  literary  man  of  the 
theatre,  and  was  filled  with  interesting  associations,  corre 
spondence,  and  travel." 1  It  was  during  Fitch's  periodical 
visits  to  Venice  that  much  of  his  writing  was  done.  He  was 
seen  there  once  scribbling  for  dear  life  as  his  gondola  swept 
him  along.  But  he  hardly  needed  the  special  stimulus  of  time 
or  place;  his  ideas  for  plays  were  so  pressing  and  so  abundant 
that  they  forced  themselves  to  the  surface  for  expression. 
While  he  waited  at  the  roadside  for  his  automobile,  for  ex 
ample,  or  while  he  sat  with  friends  at  the  opera,  the  impulse 
to  set  down  his  thronging  thoughts  would  not  be  restrained. 

On  September  4,  1909,  Clyde  Fitch  died  at  Chalons-sur- 
Marne.  Though  he  had  twenty  years  of  feverish  activity  as 
a  dramatist  behind  him,  he  was  still  a  young  man.  He  had 
shown  great  promise;  more  than  that,  performance  had  not 
been  lacking.  His  unexpected  and  untimely  death  is  but  an 
other  of  countless  illustrations  of  the  unequal  race  between 
Art  and  Time. 

Among  the  "  fifty  other  plays "  referred  to  at  the  begin 
ning  of  this  sketch,  five  stand  out  as  Fitch's  most  signal  achieve 
ments  in  American  drama.2  They  are  Beau  Brummell,  written 
at  the  suggestion  of  the  distinguished  creator  of  the  role, 
Richard  Mansfield,  who  in  turn  had  had  the  character  called 
to  his  attention  by  William  Winter,3  The  Climbers,  The  Girl 
with  the  Green  Eyes,  The  Truth,  which  was  met  with  greater 
acclaim  in  Europe  than  in  the  playwright's  own  country,  and 
The  City,  posthumously  produced.  Fitch's  knowledge  of 
New  York  types  as  evidenced  in  the  last  four  plays  and  in 
others  like  Captain  Jinks  of  the  Horse  Marines  and  The  Girls 
has  been  compared  to  O.  Henry's.  But  the  range  of  the  writer 
of  short  stories  was  narrower.  Fitch  was  fond,  too,  of  the 
period  play.  Nathan  Hale,  Barbara  Frietchie,  and  Beau 
Brummell,  in  spite  of  certain  frank  distortions  of  fact,  exhibit 
their  author's  intelligent  use  of  historical  material. 

We  owe  the  lifelike  and  artistic  delineation  of  the  great 

1  Plays  by  Clyde  Fitch,  edited  by  Montrose  J.  Moses  and  Virginia 
Gerson,  Boston,  1915,  pp.  vi-vii. 

2  See  William  Lyon  Phelps,  Essays  on  Modern  Dramatists,  New 
York,  1920,  p.  1 60. 

3  See  William  Winter,  Life  and  Art  of  Richard  Mansfield,  New 
York,  1910,  Vol.  i,  pp.  128-136;  and  William  Winter,  Shadows  of  the 
Stage,  Third  Series,  New  York,  1906,  pp.  212-220. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  5 

dandy  to  the  joint  researches  of  Fitch  and  Mansfield.  They 
had  ample  data  for  their  study.  The  real  George  Bryan 
Brummell  was  born  June  7,  1778,  and  baptized  at  Westmin 
ster.  Even  while  at  Eton,  to  which  he  was  sent  in  1790,  he 
was  known  as  "  Buck  Brummell."  During  his  four  years  at 
that  college  he  became  increasingly  popular.  His  reputation 
as  a  social  genius  and  as  a  wit  was  made  even  in  these  early 
days.  At  this  period  he  attracted  the  attention  of  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  later  Regent  for  George  III  and  later  still  himself 
King  George  IV,  and  was  an  attendant  at  the  Prince's  wed 
ding.  He  was  given  a  cornetcy  in  the  Prince's,  his  own 
regiment,  the  Tenth  Hussars.  From  Eton  in  1784,  Brummell 
went  to  Oxford,  but,  disinclined  for  study,  left  Oriel  College 
the  same  year. 

He  was  presently  promoted  to  a  captaincy  in  his  regiment, 
retiring  at  length  from  the  service  in  1798.  About  that  time 
coming  into  his  fortune,  he  set  up  a  bachelor  establishment  in 
Mayfair.  With  the  Regent  as  his  friend,  he  became  a  social 
power.  His  taste  and  authority  in  matters  connected  with 
fashion  were  acknowledged  to  be  faultless,  and  though  in  no 
sense  a  fop,  he  became  a  dictator  of  the  mode.  Leigh  Hunt 
wrote  of  him:  "  I  remember  that  Lord  Byron  once  described 
him  to  me,  as  having  nothing  remarkable  in  his  style  of  dress, 
except  a  *  certain  exquisite  propriety.'  " *  Even  the  Prince 
bowed  to  his  mandates  and  is  said,  on  one  occasion,  to  have 
begun  "  to  blubber  when  told  that  Brummell  did  not  like  the 
cut  of  his  coat."  Brummell  counted  Byron  and  Sheridan 
among  his  friends  in  the  gay  world.  The  author  of  The 
Rivals  and  The  School  for  Scandal,  second  in  stage  popularity 
only  to  Shakespeare,  used  to  send  his  verses  to  Brummell.  The 
Beau  owed  his  position  no  less  to  his  assurance  and  ready  wit 
than  to  his  supremacy  in  all  that  pertained  to  dress.  The  two 
following  anecdotes  perpetuate  certain  of  his  affectations :  "  He 
pretended  to  look  upon  the  City  as  a  terra  incognita ;  and  when 
some  great  merchant  requested  the  honour  of  his  company  at 
dinner,  he  replied,  '  With  pleasure,  if  you  will  promise  faith 
fully  not  to  tell.'  .  .  .  An  acquaintance  having,  in  a  morn 
ing  call,  bored  him  dreadfully  about  some  tour  he  had  made 
in  the  north  of  England,  enquired  with  great  pertinacity  which 

1  William  Jesse,  The  Life  of  George  Brummell,  London,  1893, 
p.  47. 


6  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

of  the  lakes  he  preferred;  when  Brummell,  quite  tired  of  the 
man's  tedious  raptures,  turned  his  head  imploringly  towards 
his  valet,  who  was  arranging  something  in  the  room,  and  said, 
'Robinson.'  'Sir/  ,  '  Which  of  the  lakes  do  I  admire  ?' 
'  Windemere,  sir/  replied  that  distinguished  individual.  '  Ah 
yes, — Windemere,'  replied  Brummell,  '  so  it  is, — Winde 
mere.'  "  x 

He  finally  quarreled  with  the  Prince.  The  break  is  usually 
attributed  to  the  Beau's  sharp  tongue.  The  famous  "  Who's 
your  fat  friend?"  and  "Wales,  will  you  ring  the  bell?"  are 
traditional,  if  not  authentic.  Brummell  did  not,  as  in  the 
play,  lose  his  place  in  society.  It  was  only  when  his  gambling 
losses  overwhelmed  him  that  he  was  constrained  to  leave  Eng 
land.  He  fled  to  Calais  on  May  16,  1816,  where  for  a  time 
in  his  little  home  under  the  ramparts,  he  gave  himself  to  the 
reckless  elegance  of  his  old  life2  until  a  new  accumulation  of 
debts  proved  once  more  his  undoing.  When,  a  year  after 
George  IV's  accession,  the  new  king  passed  through  Calais,  he 
did  not  even  see  his  old  friend,  nor  were  there  any  offers  of 
assistance. 

For  two  years,  from  1830  until  1832,  Beau  Brummell  was 
British  consul  at  Caen.  Here,  in  1835,  he  was  consigned  to 
prison  for  his  debts.  The  days  of  his  glory  were  over.  His 
mind  began  to  fail.  He  did  actually  hold  "  phantom  recep 
tions  of  the  beauties  and  magnates  of  old  days."  He  became 
careless  and  finally  disgusting  in  his  personal  habits.  His  last 
days  were  spent  in  the  asylum  of  the  Bon  Sauveur,  Caen.  On 
March  30,  1840,  he  died  and  was  buried  in  the  Protestant 
cemetery  of  the  town. 

It  will  thus  be  seen  that  Clyde  Fitch  follows  with  con 
siderable  fidelity  the  outlines  of  the  real  Beau's  character,  even 
such  traditional  anecdotes  as  have  been  quoted  having  their 
counterpart  in  the  play.  Though  a  play  does  not  have  to  be 
documented,  yet  a  period  play  must  create  an  atmosphere,  and 
in  Beau  Brummell  the  England  of  the  Regency  appears  to  live 
again. 

Brummell  had   figured   in   literature  before   Clyde  Fitch's 

1  William  Jesse,  The  Life  of  George  Brummell,  London,  1893,  pp. 
79-80. 

2  Cf.  The  Diary  of  a  Dandy,  in  John  Ashton,  Social  England  under 
the  Regency,  London,  1899,  Chapter  XXXIII. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  7 

play.  He  is  supposed  to  be  the  prototype  of  Bulwer's  Pelham, 
and  the  character  of  Trebeck  in  Lister's  Granby,  published  in 
1826,  is  a  portrait  of  the  Beau  in  his  own  lifetime,  to  the 
accuracy  of  which  he  himself  bore  witness.  There  was  also 
a  two-act  play  on  the  subject  by  Blanchard  Jerrold  which 
Mansfield  examined  and  discarded  before  broaching  his  idea  to 
Clyde  Fitch.1  Edgar  Fawcett  in  1887  had  also  treated  the 
subject  in  blank  verse.2 

When  Beau  Brummell  was  produced  on  Monday,  May  19, 
1890,  at  the  Madison  Square  Theatre  in  New  York,  it  met 
only  with  the  qualified  approval  of  the  dramatic  critics.  The 
verdict,  printed  in  the  New  York  Dramatic  Mirror,  pro 
nounced  that  "Beau  Brummell  is  very  far  from  perfection  in  its 
dramatic  construction.  If  produced  under  less  favorable  cir 
cumstances — that  is,  with  an  ordinary  company — it  is  ques 
tionable  whether  the  piece  would  have  attained  any  marked 
attention  from  the  critical  fraternity.  The  principal  draw 
back  in  the  first  sample  of  Mr.  Fitch's  work  as  a  playwright, 
is  the  lack  of  dramatic  action.  Of  all  things,  a  modern  audi 
ence  abhors  a  '  talky  J  play.  It  is  extremely  fortunate,  there 
fore,  that  the  abundance  of  talk  in  Beau  Brummell  is  not  of 
a  tiresome  character.  On  the  contrary,  the  conversation 
throughout  scintillates  with  witty  retorts,  partly  compiled  from 
authentic  sources  and  partly  supplied  by  the  dramatist  him 
self."  This  opinion  is  more  or  less  representative  of  the  stand 
taken  by  the  critics  generally  in  1890.  It  was  almost  always 
implied  that  it  was  Richard  Mansfield's  acting  that  lent  dis 
tinction  to  the  play. 

During  Fitch's  lifetime,  the  criticism  appearing  in  the 
newspapers  and  in  the  magazines  must  have  made  poor  read 
ing  indeed  for  the  playwright.  A  later  commentator  on  Fitch 
has  attributed  the  lack  of  enthusiasm  on  the  part  of  the  play 
reviewers  to  the  fact  that  they  left  the  theatre  with  a  sense  of 
depression  due  to  the  circumstance  that  this  dramatist's  attack 
and  exposition  were,  as  a  rule,  superior  to  his  last  acts. 

1  Jerrold's  Beau  Brummell  was  first  produced  at  the  Royal  Lyceum 
Theatre  in  London  on  April  n,  1859.     There  are  no  English  scenes 
in  the  play  at  all.     It  has  almost  nothing  in  common  with  Clyde 
Fitch's  piece  of  the  same  name. 

2  Two  Scenes  in   the  Life  of  Beau  Brummell,  in  Songs  of  Doubt 
and  Dream,  New  York,  1891,  p.  190. 


8  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

Neither  the  novel  situations  that  he  invented  nor  the  brilliant 
dialogue  that  he  supplied  served  to  counteract  the  chilling  ef 
fect  of  those  last  acts.  More  recent  appraisers  of  Fitch's  work 
have  considered  him  in  relation  to  a  larger  movement.  They 
have,  generally,  conceded  his  cleverness  as  a  technician,  his 
unexcelled  knowledge  of  the  conditions  of  the  theatre,  and  his 
appreciation  of  the  tastes  of  the  average  audience  of  his  all-too- 
short  day.  He  is,  even  more  significantly,  coming  gradually 
to  be  associated  with  the  good  fight  that  has  been  going  on 
ever  since  the  days  of  Bronson  Howard  for  an  independent 
and  artistic  native  drama. 


NOTE 

The  idea  of  this  play  was  Richard  Mansfield's,  and  the  author 
gratefully  acknowledges  his  debt  to  the  actor  for  innumerable  sug 
gestions. 

This  play  was  first  produced  at  the  Madison  Square  Theatre  by 
Richard  Mansfield,  on  May  19,  1890.  The  25Oth  representation  took 
place  at  the  Garden  Theatre,  on  January  30,  1891.  The  cast  on  this 
occasion  was: 

Beau  Brummell Mr.  Richard  Mansfield 

The  Prince  of  Wales Mr.  D.  H.  Harkins 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan Mr.  A.  G.  Andrews 

Lord  Manly Mr.  H.  G.  Lonsdale 

Reginald  Courtenay Mr.  Vincent  Sternroyd 

Mortimer Mr.  W.  J.  Ferguson 

Mr.  Abrahams Mr.  Harry  Gwynette 

Simpson Mr.  Smiles 

Bailiffs ' ..\™r'  Gwynette   and 

(  Mr.  Ivan  Peronette 

Prince's  Footman Mr.  F.  F.  Graham 

Mr.  Oliver  Vincent Mr.  W.  H.  Crompton 

Mariana  Vincent Miss  Beatrice  Cameron 

Kathleen Miss  Ethel  Sprague 

The  Duchess  of  Leamington Mrs.  Julia  Brutone 

Lady  Farthingale Miss  Helen  Glidden 

French  Lodging-house  Keeper Miss  Hazel   Selden 

Nurse , Miss  Genevra  Campbell 

Mrs.  St.  Aubyn Miss  Adela  Measor 


THE  PERSONS  IN  THE  PLAY 

THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES,  heir  apparent  to  the  throne  of  Eng 
land. 

BEAU  BRUMMELL,  prince  of  dandles. 

RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN,  playwright. 

REGINALD  COURTENAY,  nephew  to  the  Beau. 

MORTIMER,  valet  and  confidential  servant  to  the  Beau. 

MR.  OLIVER  VINCENT,  a  self-made  merchant,  father  of 
Mariana. 

LORD  MANLY,  a  fop. 

MR.  ABRAHAMS,  a  money-lender. 

BAILIFFS. 

PRINCE'S  FOOTMAN. 

SIMPSON,  footman  to  Beau. 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  LEAMINGTON,  middle-aged,  but  very  anx 
ious  to  appear  young. 

MARIANA  VINCENT,  young  and  beautiful,  beloved  by  Beau 
and  Reginald. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN,  passee  but  still  beautiful — very  anxious  to 
captivate  the  Prince,  but  unwilling  to  resign  the  Beau. 

KATHLEEN,  Irish  maid  of  Mariana. 

LADY  FARTHINGALE,  pretty — insipid. 

A  FRENCH  LODGING-HOUSE  KEEPER. 

A  NURSE. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL 

THE   FIRST   ACT.     FIRST   SCENE.     The    morning^    toilet. 
Mr.  Brummell  dispatches  a  proposal  of  marriage,  as 
sists  his  nephew,  and  sends  for  a  new  tailor. 
SECOND  SCENE.     The  Beau  receives  a  number  of  friends, 
and  makes  an  unfortunate  blunder. 

THE  SECOND  ACT.  A  small  and  early  party  at  Carlton 
House.  Mr.  Brummell  proposes  to  an  heiress,  and 
reprimands  a  Prince. 

THE  THIRD  ACT.  The  Mall,  and^  how  it  came  about 
that  Mr.  Brummell  had  a  previous  engagement  with 
His  Majesty. 

THE  FOURTH  ACT.  FIRST  SCENE.  Mr.  Brummell's 
lodgings  in  Calais. 

(Six  months  later.) 

SECOND  SCENE.     The  attic  at  Caen.    A  very  poor  dinner 
with  an  excellent  dessert. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL 

THE  FIRST  ACT 
SCENE  ONE 

The  scene  represents  the  BEAU'S  dressing-room.  A  cheerful 
room,  furnished  more  like  a  lady's  boudoir  than  a  mans 
dressing-room.  A  handsome  dressing-table,  covered  with 
a  bewildering  array  of  silver-topped  bottles,  stands  at  the 
left.  A  large  cheval-glass  stands  in  front  of  a  bay  win 
dow  opening  out  on  a  balcony.  The  curtains  are  open. 
The  door  at  the  back  leads  into  the  BEAU'S  bedroom.  A 
table  stands  at  one  side,  with  books  and  papers  in  precise 
order.  A  door  at  the  left-hand  side  leads  into  an  ante 
room  where  visitors  are  detained  until  the  great  man 
wishes  to  see  them. 

MORTIMER,  the  BEAU'S  valet  and  really  confidential  servant, 
is  discovered  sitting  on  sofa,  head  back,  face  covered  with 
handkerchief;  he  has  evidently  been  asleep.  It  is  about 
noon. 

[MORTIMER  removes  handkerchief,  yawns  and  speaks.'} 
MORTIMER.  Up  till  four  this  morning!  It  was  pretty 
lively  at  the  club  last  night,  but  I  have  lost  all  my  beauty 
sleep  to  pay  for  it.  I  don't  know  how  much  longer  we  will 
be  able  to  continue  this  style  of  living.  Our  nerves  will  give 
out  if  our  credit  doesn't.  Mr.  Brummell  only  turned  over 
twice  and  then  took  to  his  chocolate.  That  means  he  will  only 
be  half  an  hour  at  his  bath — time  for  a  nap.  [Replaces 
handkerchief.  Enter  SIMPSON  through  door  from  ante-room. 
SIMPSON  is  the  regulation  footman,  with  powdered  hair  and 
liver yJ] 

SIMPSON  [at  left].  Mr.  Mortimer,  sir,  Mr.  Abrahams  has 
just  called.  He  particularly  wishes  to  see  you,  sir.  [Going 
toward  MORTIMER.] 

12 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  13 

MORTIMER  [starting  and  removing  handkerchief].  Hang 
Abrahams,  what's  he  after?  Dear  me!  It  can't  be  that  he 
thinks  of  collecting  those  I.  O.  U.'s  of  mine.  [Rising.] 

SIMPSON  [who  has  a  great  respect  for  MORTIMER.  Very 
deferentially].  Been  losing  again,  sir? 

MORTIMER  [loftily].  Yes,  Simpson,  pretty  high  stakes  last 
night,  and  one  must  play,  you  know. 

SIMPSON.  Mr.  Mortimer,  sir,  you  couldn't  propose  me  in 
your  club,  could  you,  sir? 

MORTIMER  [haughtily  and  then  more  kindly,  as  he  sees 
SIMPSON'S  downcast  face].  No,  Simpson,  not  in  your  present 
position,  you  know;  but  if  you  should  ever  raise  yourself,  de 
pend  upon  me  to  use  all  my  influence  for  you. 

SIMPSON  [gratefully].  Oh,  thank  you,  sir,  I'm  sure,  [go 
ing]  but  what  about  Mr.  Abrahams,  sir? 

MORTIMER  [seating  himself].  Oh,  damn  Abrahams!  [En 
ter  ABRAHAMS  from  ante-room,  hat  and  cane  in  hand.  ABRA 
HAMS  is  the  typical  Jew  money-lender  of  the  period,  exag 
gerated  in  dress  and  manner.] 

ABRAHAMS  [advancing  just  as  SIMPSON  crosses  back  of  table 
and  exits,  giving  him  a  look  of  haughty  disdain].  No,  you 
don't,  Mr.  Mortimer;  no,  you  don't,  not  yet.  Where's  your 
master  ? 

MORTIMER.  Excuse  me,  where's  my  gentleman,  you  mean, 
Mr.  Abrahams.  [Rising.]  I  am  a  gentleman's  gentleman;  I 
have  no  master. 

ABRAHAMS  [at  left  center].  Oh,  you  haven't  a  master, 
haven't  you  ?  Well,  now,  suppose  I  was  to  come  down  on  you 
with  some  of  your  little  I.  O.  U.'s,  I  wonder  then  if  you'd 
have  a  master.  Where's  Mr.  Brummell? 

MORTIMER.     Mr.  Brummell  has  not  yet  appeared. 

ABRAHAMS  [sitting  down  as  if  to  wait].  Inform  him  that 
Mr.  Abrahams  wishes  to  see  him. 

MORTIMER  [shocked].     I  repeat,  sir,  he  is  not  up. 

ABRAHAMS.  Well,  then,  my  good  fellow,  it's  time  he  were 
up.  Tell  him  I  said  so. 

MORTIMER.  It  is  as  much  as  my  position  is  worth,  sir,  to 
go  to  him  at  this  hour.  You  must  call  again,  Mr.  Abra 
hams. 

ABRAHAMS  [rising].  Call  again!  Call  again!  This  is 
the  seventh  time  I've  called  again. 


i4  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER  [trying  now  to  placate  him}.  Yes — eh — if  you 
please,  Mr.  Abrahams. 

ABRAHAMS.  No,  sir;  I  must  see  him  now.  I'm  in  need 
of  money  myself,  and  I  must  get  it  from  Mr.  Brummell.  My 
creditors  are  pressing  me,  and  they  force  me  to  do  the  same. 
[Loudly.]  I  regret  the  necessity,  but  I  am  determined  upon 
seeing  him. 

MORTIMER  [who  is  so  shocked  he  can  hardly  speak~\.  Not 
so  loud,  Mr.  Abrahams,  not  so  loud.  If  Mr.  Brummell  were 
to  hear  you,  he'd  be  distressed.  Besides,  he  never  tolerates 
anyone  who  raises  his  voice  unnecessarily.  If  he  should  hear 
you,  you  might  never  be  paid. 

ABRAHAMS  [aghast  at  the  thought].    What! 

MORTIMER  [hands  raised  in  horror].     Sh!     Sh! 

ABRAHAMS.     What!     [Whispering  in  MORTIMER'S  ear.] 

MORTIMER  [looking  at  ABRAHAMS  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye].  Upon  my  honor,  Mr.  Brummell  was  saying  only  yes 
terday  he  thought  he  would  pay  Mr.  Abrahams. 

ABRAHAMS  [a  little  more  calmly].  Then  why  hasn't  he 
done  so? 

MORTIMER.  Mr.  Brummell  only  said  it  yesterday,  and  Mr. 
Brummell  never  does  anything  in  a  hurry. 

ABRAHAMS.  Is  four  years  a  hurry?  Well,  this  is  the  last 
time  that  I  will  be  put  off.  Do  you  follow  me — the  last  time ! 
And  now,  when  am  I  to  have  your  little  sums? 

MORTIMER  [taking  out  handkerchief  and  wiping  eyes]. 
Mine!  Oh,  I  have  a  wealthy  aunt,  who  is  now  dying  in 
Clapham,  Mr.  Abrahams,  and  I  am  her  sole  heir.  I  fear  I 
must  beg  you  to  wait  until  after  her  funeral. 

ABRAHAMS  [at  left  center.  Really  puzzled].  It  is  very 
strange,  a  very  large  number  of  my  clients  have  wealthy  aunts 
who  are  dying,  but  they  don't  die.  They  all  appear  to  be 
affected  with  a  most  lingering  sickness.  However,  Mr.  Brum 
mell  has  no  such  relative,  and  I  believe,  on  consideration,  that 
I  will  wait  for  him  this  morning.  [Sits  in  chair  by  table] 

MORTIMER  [who  is  now  determined  to  get  rid  of  him,  cross 
ing  to  ABRAHAMS].  No,  really,  Mr.  Abrahams,  you  must 
go.  Mr.  Brummell  would  not  see  you  until  his  toilet  is  com 
pleted  ;  and,  indeed,  if  he  would,  he  could  transact  no  business 
in  deshabille. 

ABRAHAMS.     In  what?     [Jumps  up]    Oh,  very  well,  very 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  15 

well;  but  advise  him  this  is  the  last  time  I  will  be  dismissed 
without  seeing  him.  The  next  time  I  call,  I  will  see  him 
whether  he  is  in  desh — desh — or  nothing.  I  will  have  my 
money.  I  will  have  my  money.  [All  the  while  he  is  saying 
this,  MORTIMER  is  pushing  him  gently  off  through  the  ante 
room.  MORTIMER  ushers  ABRAHAMS  off  at  the  left,  then 
crosses  to  the  right  center,  and  turns  away  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
as  SIMPSON  enters  very  hurriedly] 

SIMPSON.  Mr.  Mortimer,  sir,  there  are  a  number  of  people 
waiting  with  their  accounts  to  see  Mr.  Brummell.  What  shall 
I  say,  sir? 

MORTIMER  [resignedly].  Get  a  list  of  their  names,  Simp 
son,  and  tell  them  I'll  call  around  and  see  them  to-day. 

SIMPSON.  Very  well,  sir.  [Exit  SIMPSON  through  ante 
room.  A  murmur  of  voices  is  heard  there] 

MORTIMER.  Affairs  are  very  shaky.  It  was  only  three 
days  since  Abrahams  called.  According  to  this  he  will  return 
again  to-morrow.  [Sits  in  chair  in  front  of  dressing-case, 
makes  himself  comfortable,  and  is  about  to  fall  asleep  when 
KATHLEEN  appears  at  door  and  peeps  in] 

KATHLEEN  [in  door  at  left.  She  is  MARIANA'S  Irish  maid, 
very  pretty  and  piquant].  Pst!  Pst!  [MORTIMER  starts 
and  listens,  then  composes  himself  for  another  nap.] 

KATHLEEN.     Pst!     Pst! 

MORTIMER  [still  seated].  I  did  drink  pretty  heavily  last 
night,  but  I  hardly  thought  it  affected  me. 

KATHLEEN.     Hello! 

MORTIMER  [rising].     Who  is  it?    What  is  it? 

KATHLEEN  [still  in  door.  With  pretty  impatience].  Is  it 
all  right, — can  I  come  in? 

MORTIMER  [laughingly].  Look  here,  Kathleen,  are  you 
going  to  indulge  in  that  sort  of  thing  when  we  are  married  ? 

KATHLEEN.     Can  I  come  in?     [Comes  in  a  few  steps.] 

MORTIMER  [crossing  to  center].  Yes,  it's  all  right  now. 
Mr.  Brummell  is  finishing  the  first  part  of  his  toilet;  he  won't 
be  out  for  some  time  yet.  Well,  what  do  you  want,  you  little 
minx?  [Chucks  her  under  chin.] 

KATHLEEN  [tossing  her  head].  Minx,  indeed!  [Crossing 
to  right.]  I  dropped  in  to  find  tmt  what's  your  intentions. 
Mr.  Sheridan's  gentleman  has  become  very  pressing  in  his,  and 
won't  be  held  off  much  longer.  Now,  is  it  marriage  with 


!6  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

you,  Mr.  Mortimer,  or  is  it  a  breaking  off,  Mr.  Mortimer? 
Am  I  to  be  worn  in  your  coat  like  a  flower  and  thrown  aside 
when  I'm  withered,  or  am  I  to  be  pressed  in  the  album  of 
your  affections,  Mr.  Mortimer?  I  own  there  is  an  air  about 
Mr.  Brummell,  and  I  should  not  be  averse  to  a  connection 
with  the  family.  [Quite  seriously.] 

MORTIMER  [just  as  seriously].  And  I  mean  you  shall  have 
it,  Kathleen,  for  you  would  become  our  position.  But  the  fact 
is,  I  can't  afford  to  marry  while  Mr.  Brummell's  money  mat 
ters  are  so  bad.  I  tell  you  his  social  position  is  like  a  halo, — it 
is  glory  all  round  him,  but  there's  a  hollow  in  the  middle. 

KATHLEEN  [with  a  sudden  thought}.  Mr.  Mortimer!  We 
must  marry  Mr.  Brummell!  First,  we  must  procure  a  list  of 
the  heiresses. 

MORTIMER  [slyly].  I  understand  there  is  a  heap  of  money 
in  your  family. 

KATHLEEN  [dubiously].  But  there's  one  obstacle — Miss 
Mariana's  affections  are  already  engaged. 

MORTIMER.     Indeed,  to  whom? 

KATHLEEN.  That's  what  I  can't  find  out.  The  diwle 
never  signs  any  of  his  letters.  I  can  promise  you  one  thing, 
he  isn't  very  high,  and  Miss  Mariana's  father  has  forbid  him 
the  house,  and  swears  she  shan't  have  him.  Mr.  Vincent,  oh, 
ho!  he's  all  for  position  and  fashion. 

MORTIMER  [puts  arm  around  her  waist  and  they  walk  up 
and  down}.  Then  Mr.  Vincent  would  be  glad  to  marry  her 
to  Mr.  Brummell.  We'll  enlist  him  on  our  side.  Now  there 
are  two  difficulties  with  Mr.  Brummell — first,  he  is,  just  at 
present,  very  friendly  with  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn.  Still,  I  think  I 
can  get  him  out  of  that  predicament,  and  then  you  see  Mr. 
Brummell  is  so  demmed  particular, — the  young  lady  must  be 
correct  to  a  hair  in  every  respect — 

KATHLEEN  [affectedly].  Lord,  Mr.  Morty,  you  needn't 
worry  yourself  about  that ;  ar'n't  I  in  her  service  ?  And  what's 
the  matter  with  me?  She's  a  very  much  a  la  mud  and  [crosses 
to  mirror  at  right]  correct  in  every  particular.  Mr.  Mortimer, 
do  you  think  you  are  as  becoming  to  me  as  Mr.  Sheridan's 
gentleman?  [Beckoning  to  him;  he  comes  up  and  looks  over 
her  shoulder  in  the  glass.} 

MORTIMER   [putting  his  arm  around  her  and  leading  her 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  17 

away  from  mirror}.  Look  here,  Kathleen,  no  tricks;  and 
what  are  you  doing  out  at  this  time  of  day  ? 

KATHLEEN  [walking  to  and  fro  with  MORTIMER].  Why, 
Miss  Mariana  sent  me  over  an  hour  back  with  this  letter 
[holding  up  letter]  for  her  young  gentleman.  They  corre 
spond  through  me;  faith,  I'm  turned  into  a  regular  post-bag. 
But  I'm  afraid  I've  missed  him  this  time. 

MORTIMER  [laughing].  You  will  have  to  miss  him  quite 
regularly  when  we  begin  to  break  it  off  between  your  young 
mistress  and  her  lover,  and  supplant  him  with  my  gentleman. 

BEAU  [voice  in  distance  from  bedroom].  Mortimer! 
Mortimer ! 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir !    [Alarmed.]    That's  Mr.  Brummell ! 

KATHLEEN  [starts  off  left].  Lord!  I'm  off.  [Pointing 
to  dressing-table.]  Oh,  Morty!  Is  that  where  he  sits  and 
does  it?  [MORTIMER  nods.]  Couldn't  I  see  him? 

MORTIMER  [with  horror].  What!  Before  he's  finished? 
Gracious  Heavens!  No! 

KATHLEEN  [crossing  to  door  of  ante-room].  Well,  I  am 
going.  I'm  loath  to  leave  ye;  good-by — be  faithful.  [Throws 
kiss.  Exit  KATHLEEN.  Enter  BEAU  from  door  into  bedroom. 
He  enters  slowly  as  though  it  were  too  much  trouble  to  come 
in.  He  is  dressed  in  a  yellow  brocaded  dressing-gown,  tied  with 
a  heavy  yellow  cord.  It  is  long,  so  that  only  his  patent  leather 
pumps  with  silver  buckles  show,  with  just  a  glimpse  of  brown 
and  yellow  striped  socks.  He  crosses  at  once  to  the  dressing- 
table  without  paying  any  attention  to  MORTIMER,  who  bows 
deferentially  and  says:] 

MORTIMER.    Good  morning,  sir. 

BEAU.     Oh,  go  to  the  devil. 

MORTIMER  [to  himself].  Mr.  Brummell  is  in  a  bad  temper 
this  morning. 

BEAU  [seating  himself  at  dressing-table].  Mortimer,  is  the 
sun  shining? 

MORTIMER  [crossing  to  window — right].  Oh,  finely,  sir. 
[SIMPSON  enters,  bringing  soda-water  bottle  and  glass  on  a 
tray.] 

BEAU  [simply  looks  at  it  and  motions  it  away;  exit  SIMP 
SON].  Any  gossip,  Mortimer?  [Has  taken  up  hand-glass, 
and  then  gently  smooths  his  eyebrows.] 


!8  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER.  None  of  any  account,  sir.  The  Dowager 
Lady  Slopington  ran  off  yesterday  with  young  Philip  Petti- 

BEAU  [now  manicuring  his  nails].  If  it  happened  yester 
day,  it  must  be  forgotten  to-day. 

MORTIMER.  And  Captain  Badminton  shot  himself  in  the 
Park  last  night,  sir,  after  losing  ten  thousand  pounds  at  hazard. 

BEAU  [now  takes  tweezers  and  pulls  out  one  or  two  hairs 
from  his  face].  Very  stupid  of  him;  he  should  have  shot  him 
self  first — is  he  dead,  Mortimer? 

MORTIMER.     No,  sir. 

BEAU.  He  always  was  a  bad  shot.  You'll  find  some  of  his 
I.  O.  U.'s  among  my  papers;  return  them  to  him  canceled, 
with  my  compliments.  He  can  use  them  for  plasters.  And 
who  has  called? 

MORTIMER  [crosses  to  small  table  and  looks  over  cards]. 
Oh,  nobody,  sir.  To  be  sure  there  has  been  the  usual  crowd  of 
people.  The  Honorable  Mrs.  Donner  came  for  your  sub 
scription  to  the  town  charities,  and  I  gave  her  all  you  could 
spare,  sir.  Mr.  Cecil  Serious,  the  poet,  called  for  permission 
to  inscribe  your  name  under  the  dedication  of  his  new  volume 
of  verses.  Lord  Cowden  came  to  know  if  your  influence  might 
still  be  used  in  the  support  of  his  party  in  the  coming  elections. 

BEAU  [still  occupied  with  his  toilet].  Yes,  he  can  use  my 
influence.  Well,  you  satisfied  them  all,  I  presume. 

MORTIMER  [at  left].  I  took  that  liberty,  sir.  Then  there 
was  a  quantity  of  trades-people  with  their  bills  and  accounts. 
I  said  you  had  been  out  all  night  with  the  Prince  and  really 
were  not  able  to  see  them. 

BEAU.  Pray,  Mortimer,  be  a  little  careful  of  my  reputa 
tion  in  your  lies.  You  know  common  people  are  apt  to  look 
upon  dissipation  very  differently  from  persons  of  fashion.  You 
may  say  what  you  like  about  the  Prince,  but  handle  me  a  little 
delicately. 

MORTIMER  [bows,  then  speaks  after  short  pause].  Sprague, 
the  tailor,  called  again,  sir,  with  his  account. 

BEAU  [much  astonished].  Again!  What  insolence!  Upon 
what  previous  occasion  had  he  the  presumption  to  call? 

MORTIMER.     A  year  ago  last  month,  sir. 

BEAU  [with  real  astonishment].  What  damned  impudence! 
Mortimer,  you  may  let  it  be  known  at  your  club  that  he  comes 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  19 

to  me  no  longer.  Send  for  that  new  tailor — what's  his  name — 
to  wait  upon  me  this  afternoon.  Bring  this  morning's  letters. 
[MORTIMER  brings  down  table  with  a  number  of  little  notes 
to  BEAU,  who  is  still  seated  at  dressing-table.] 

MORTIMER  [holding  up  a  bundle  of  bills].  These  are  bills, 
sir.  All  of  them  fresh  this  morning,  and  some  of  them  more 
urgent  than  usual. 

BEAU  [not  taking  the  trouble  to  look  at  them].  Hide  them 
away  somewhere,  where  I  can't  see  them,  and  I  shall  feel  as  if 
they  had  been  paid. 

MORTIMER  [pushing  forward  a  bundle  of  notes].  Your 
private  correspondence,  this  little  collection,  sir. 

BEAU  [still  seated,  takes  up  notes,  one  at  a  time,  and  smells 
them] .  Patchouli ! — phew ! — Frangipane ! — I  believe  that  smells 
like  peppermint.  I  don't  know  what  that  is,  but  it's  very  un 
pleasant.  Violet! — musk!  Take  them  all  away — you  may 
read  them  yourself. 

MORTIMER  [holding  up  a  yellow  lock  of  hair  which  he  has 
taken  from  an  envelope].  This  letter  has  this  little  enclosure, 
sir. 

BEAU  [in  interested  tone].     Money? 

MORTIMER.     Not  exactly,  sir,  although  a  similar  color. 

BEAU   [disappointedly — languidly].     Whose  is  it? 

MORTIMER.     Lady  Constance  Conway's,  and  she  says — 

BEAU  [interrupts  him].  Never  mind  what  she  says.  I  be 
lieve  I  did  honor  her  with  the  request.  Write  and  thank  her, 
and  quote  some  poetry.  Say  hers  is  the  most  precious  lock  I 
possess.  Rather  tender  little  woman,  Lady  Constance.  [Senti 
mentally] 

MORTIMER  [pointedly].     Is  she  rich,  sir? 

BEAU  [sighing].     No,  she's  not. 

MORTIMER  [opening  another  note].  Oh!  A  note  from 
Mrs.  St.  Aubyn.  She  wants  to  know  where  you've  been  these 
two  days.  She  says  you  are  her  lover's  knot;  she's  coming  to 
see  you  at  three  this  afternoon;  bids  you  be  ready  to  receive 
her.  She  has,  besides,  down  below  in  a  postscript,  a  myriad 
of  sentiments  which  she  says  belong  to  you,  and  she  is  herself, 
unalterably  yours,  Horatia. 

BEAU.  The  one  woman  in  London  with  whom  it's  possible 
to  have  a  Platonic  friendship.  One  must  have  something  now 
adays,  and  these  other  liaisons  are  so  excessively  vulgar. 


20  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER  [very  loud  as  he  opens  letter}.  Mr.  Brummell, 
sir. 

BEAU  [shocked],  Mortimer,  how  often  have  I  told  you 
never  to  startle  me? 

MORTIMER  [bows  an  apology].  Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  here's 
the  memorandum  of  an  I.  O.  U.  for  one  thousand  pounds, 
given  by  you  to  Lord  Gainsby  at  White's  three  nights  ago,  for 
sums  lost  at  hazard. 

BEAU  [a  little  disturbed] .  The  deuce,  Mortimer.  It  must 
be  paid  to-day;  that's  a  debt  of  honor.  How  can  we  obtain 
the  money? 

MORTIMER.  I  can  try  Abrahams  again,  sir,  but  he  was 
very  difficult  the  last  time. 

BEAU  [rings  bell.  Enter  SIMPSON  from  ante-room. — With 
out  looking  at  him].  Simpson! 

SIMPSON.     Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  Go  to  Mr.  Abrahams.  Of  course,  you  know  where 
he  lives. 

SIMPSON.  Yes,  sir.  [MORTIMER  brings  table  back  to  place 
up  at  right.] 

BEAU.    Say  Mr.  Brummell  requests  his  immediate  attendance. 

SIMPSON.    Very  well,  sir!     [Exit  SIMPSON.] 

MORTIMER  [coming  down].  Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  this  can't 
go  on  much  longer. 

BEAU.     No,  I  hope  not. 

MORTIMER.  Everybody's  pressing  on  you,  and  the  only 
thing  that  keeps  them  off  at  all  is  your  friendship  with  the 
Prince,  and  if  anything  should  happen  to  that — 

BEAU  [quite  unaffectedly].  Nothing  could  happen  to  that, 
Mortimer,  and  if  anything  did,  I  should  cut  the  Prince  and 
make  the  old  King  the  fashion.  [Rises] 

MORTIMER.  I  have  been  wondering,  Mr.  Brummell,  if  I 
might  be  so  bold,  if  you  had  ever  thought,  sir,  of  the  advisa 
bility  of  a  rich  marriage. 

BEAU.  Yes,  it  has  occurred  to  me  occasionally;  in  fact,  it 
has  passed  through  my  mind  quite  recently  that  it  might  be 
desirable.  Only  to  decide  on  the  person  really  seems  too  diffi 
cult  a  task  for  me  to  undertake.  You  would  not  have  me 
marry  a  mere  money-bag,  would  you,  Mortimer? 

MORTIMER  [at  left  of  table].  But  the  great  Mr.  Brum 
mell  has  only  to  choose. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  21 

BEAU  [staring  at  him  in  utter  surprise  that  such  a  remark 
should  be  necessary].  Yes,  of  course!  But  one  desires  some 
sentiment.  I  wouldn't  care  to  make  a  loan  for  life  and  give 
myself  as  security. 

MORTIMER.  Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  have  you  ever  observed 
Miss  Mariana  Vincent? 

BEAU  [thoughtfully].  Yes,  I  have  noticed  her  in  the  Mall, 
and  I  must  confess  it  was  to  admire  her ;  her  person  is  perfect. 
Is  her  matrimonial  figure  as  good? 

MORTIMER.     I  believe  it  is  sixty  thousand  pounds,  sir. 

BEAU.     Oh,  dear! 

MORTIMER  {hastily'}.  But  Mr.  Vincent  would  be  ashamed 
to  offer  so  little  to  the  wife  of  Mr.  Brummell. 

BEAU  [musingly].  Yes,  it's  a  very  paltry  sum,  and  Mrs.  St. 
Aubyn — 

MORTIMER  [insinuatingly] .  If  you  could  present  her  to  the 
Prince,  Mr.  Brummell,  don't  you  think  a  Platonic  friendship 
might  spring  up  there? 

BEAU  [as  though  thinking  aloud].  She  is  ambitious,  but 
she  is  clever  and  would  never  forgive  a  slight.  She  is  a  good 
hater,  and  if  she  thought  she  were  being  put  upon  one  side,  she 
would  make  a  sly  enemy.  Well — we  shall  see.  Mortimer, 
write  a  letter  to  Mr.  Vincent — make  my  proposal  for  his 
daughter's  hand.  Be  mindful  of  your  language  and  careful 
to  accomplish  it  in  the  most  elegant  manner,  and  request  an 
immediate  reply. 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir. 

SIMPSON  [enters  at  left  from  ante-room].  Mr.  Reginald 
Courtenay,  sir. 

BEAU.  Yes,  you  may  bid  him  come  in  here.  [REGINALD 
comes  rushing  in  from  ante-room.  He  is  a  handsome,  bright- 
faced  lad  of  twenty,  dressed  simply,  in  great  contrast  to  BEAU'S 
gorgeous  attire.] 

REGINALD  [speaks  very  loud].  Ah!  Mortimer.  [Crossing 
to  BEAU,  after  placing  hat  and  cane  on  table,  with  hand  ex 
tended.]  Good  morning  Uncle  Beau! 

BEAU.  Reginald!  You  are  evidently  laboring  under  the 
impression  that  I  am  a  great  distance  off.  [MORTIMER  goes 
into  bedroom] 

REGINALD  [in  a  much  lower  tone].  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Uncle  Beau.  [Bows.]  Good  morning.  [Hand  extended.] 


22  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  No,  I  don't  think  I  will  shake  hands;  men  shake 
hands  much  too  often,  especially  in  warm  weather.  A  glance 
of  the  eye,  Reginald — a  glance  of  the  eye!  Did  it  ever  occur 
to  you,  Reginald,  how  thoughtful  our  Creator  was,  in  giving 
us  bodies,  to  give  them  to  us  naked,  so  that  we  could  dress  and 
ornament  them  as  we  choose? 

REGINALD.     It  had  not  occurred  to  me  before,  Uncle. 

BEAU.     No,  I  suppose  not. 

REGINALD.     I  trust  you  are  well  this  morning? 

BEAU.  No,  I've  contracted  a  cold — I  suppose  everybody 
will  have  a  cold  now.  I  left  my  carriage  on  the  way  to  the 
Pavilion  last  night,  and  the  wretch  of  a  landlord  put  me  into 
the  same  room  with  a  damp  stranger. 

REGINALD  [goes  up,  sits  on  settee  at  right,  with  a  change  of 
tone  and  manner}.  Uncle,  I  want  your  advice  and  help. 

BEAU  [goes  to  REGINALD,  and  puts  his  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  speaks  with  real  affection].  All  the  advice  I  have  is  yours. 
Reginald,  my  boy,  I  trust  you  haven't  gotten  yourself  into 
difficulties.  You  are  the  one  creature  in  the  world  whom  I 
love,  and  I  think  it  would  break  my  heart  to  see  you  in  any 
trouble  from  which  I  could  not  free  you.  Your  mother,  my 
boy,  was  a  mother  to  me  for  years,  and  when  I  lost  my  sister 
I  lost  the  best  friend  I  ever  had.  She  saw  the  heart  that  beat 
beneath  the  waistcoat.  Moreover,  she  helped  me  always — in 
every  way;  if  it  had  not  been  for  her,  perhaps  even  now,  I 
might  be  in  some  smoky  office  in  the  city — that  undiscovered 
country  from  whose  bourn  no  social  traveler  ever  returns. 
[Crosses  back  to  dressing-table.}  What  is  it,  Reginald?  If 
you  are  irf  debt,  I  will  give  you  a  letter  to  Mr.  Abrahams. 
If  you  are  in  the  blue-devils,  I  will  give  you  one  to  Mrs.  St. 
Aubyn. 

REGINALD  [rises  and  comes  down  to  BEAU].  I  am  in 
neither,  Uncle  Beau;  I  am  in  love. 

BEAU.  Dear  me,  that's  worse  than  either.  How  do  you 
know  you  are? 

REGINALD.  Why — well — I  feel  it  here!  [Indicating 
heart.}  I  live  only  when  she  is  present,  and  merely  exist  when 
away  from  her. 

BEAU  [staring  at  him  through  his  glass}.  Reginald,  don't 
talk  like  a  family  newspaper.  Is  your  fair  one  possible? 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  23 

REGINALD  [indignantly].  If  you  mean  is  she  a  gentle 
woman,  she  is,  and  besides,  young  and  beautiful — and — 

BEAU  [at  right}.  Of  course,  she  would  be.  But  does  she 
return  your  passion? 

REGINALD.     She  loves  me,  Uncle. 

BEAU.     Of  course,  she  would — but — 

REGINALD.  Her  father  is  opposed  to  me.  He  has  forbidden 
our  seeing  each  other ;  our  meetings  have  to  be  clandestine,  and 
our  mutual  correspondence  is  carried,  on  through  her  maid. 
He  wishes  a  title  for  his  daughter.  He  is  rich  and  seeks  only 
position  in  the  world  of  society,  while  she,  ah !  she  cares  nothing 
for  it — only — for — me. 

BEAU  [looking  at  him  through  glass}.  Reginald,  do  you 
know  I  think  you  are  more  conceited  than  I  am. 

REGINALD  [at  center}.  Oh,  no!  [Bowing.'}  Oh!  Uncle 
Beau,  you,  who  are  so  high  in  favor  at  the  Court,  who  have 
Dukes  at  your  elbow  and  the  Regent  on  your  arm,  might  help 
me  in  a  worldly  way,  that  I  might  win  over  the  father.  I 
know  that  I  am  dear  to  you,  as  you  are  to  me — and  that  is  why 
I  have  come  to  you! 

BEAU.  And  you  shall  not  have  come  in  vain.  [With  en 
thusiasm.}  By  my  manners!  You  shall  have  the  girl  if  I 
have  to  plead  for  you  myself.  But  that  will  not  be  necessary. 
No,  I  will  give  you  social  distinction  and  prominence  much 
more  easily.  Come  for  me  in  a  little  while,  and  I'll  walk 
along  the  Mall  with  you  to  White's.  Yes,  and  be  seen  with 
you  at  the  Club  window  a  few  moments.  Now,  my  dear  boy, 
can  anybody  possibly  do  anything  more  for  you?  [With  abso 
lute  conviction.} 

REGINALD  [pleased}.  No,  Uncle.  [Turning  to  go.~}  Yes,. 
Uncle — you  can  do  one  thing  more  for  me.  I've  left  my  purse ; 
will  you  lend  me  a  couple  of  crowns  to  take  a  chair  with? 
I've  missed  an  appointment  with  the  maid,  and  I  wish  to  return 
to  the  Park  in  a  hurry. 

BEAU.  Reginald,  you  know  I  never  use  silver,  it's  so  ex 
cessively  dirty  and  heavy.  Ask  Mortimer  for  a  couple  of 
guineas  as  you  go  out.  [REGINALD  starts  to  go.'}  By  the  way, 
Reginald,  it  is  just  possible  that  I  may  enter  into  the  golden 
bands  myself.  I  am  thinking  somewhat  of  a  marriage  with 
a  certain  young  lady  whose  charms,  strange  to  say,  very  much 


24  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

resemble  those  you  would  have  described  had  I  permitted  you 
to  inflict  me. 

REGINALD  [laughing].  You  marry!  Uncle!  You!  Your 
wit  makes  me  laugh  in  spite  of  my  dolors!  Imagine  the  great 
Beau  Brummell  married!  Why,  Uncle,  your  children  would 
be  little  Rosettes. 

BEAU  [wincing].  Reginald,  never  be  guilty  of  a  pun;  it 
is  excessively  vulgar.  I  am  serious.  I  think  I  may  marry. 

REGINALD  [going  to  BEAU  and  offering  hand  quickly]., 
Then,  Uncle,  I  am  glad  for  you. 

BEAU  [starts,  looks  at  hand  with  eye-glass].  Dear  me, 
what's  that?  Oh,  dear,  no,  Reginald — a  glance  of  the  eye. 
[REGINALD  drops  hand.]  A  glance  of  the  eye!  My  boy,  you 
look  so  like  your  mother — God  bless  you!  [REGINALD 
goes  to  table  at  left  for  hat  and  stick.] 

BEAU.    You  will  return? 

REGINALD  [boisterously,  crossing  to  door  at  left].  Yes, 
shortly. 

BEAU  [again  shocked  at  his  loud  tone],  Reginald!  [REG 
INALD  stops,  returns  a  step  or  two,  looks  at  BEAU  as  if  to  say, 
"  What  is  it? "  BEAU  bows  very  politely.  REGINALD  re 
members  he  had  forgotten  himself  for  a  minute,  bows,  places 
hat  on  his  head,  as  he  turns,  and  exits  less  boisterously.] 

SIMPSON  [enters  from  ante-room  as  REGINALD  exits].  Mr. 
Abrahams,  sir. 

BEAU.    Yes,  you  can  let  him  in  here. 

SIMPSON  [exits  and  returns,  ushering  in  ABRAHAMS].  Mr, 
Abrahams,  sir. 

ABRAHAMS  [enters  with  assurance].  I  understand,  Mr* 
Brummell,  that  you  wished  to  see  me.  I  had  much  difficulty 
in  leaving  my  place  of  business,  but  you  see  I  am  here. 

BEAU  [glancing  at  him  through  his  glass].  Ah — Abrahams 
— ah,  yes!  So  you  are,  so  you  are. 

ABRAHAMS  [insinuatingly].  I  thought  it  was  likely,  sir, 
that  you  wished  to  make  a  few  payments. 

BEAU  [dryly].  I  think  that's  wrong,  Abrahams;  do  you 
know,  I  fear  you  will  have  to  guess  again. 

ABRAHAMS  [with  indignation].  Well,  now,  really,  Mr, 
Brummell,  I  hope  you  don't  want  to  raise  another  loan. 

BEAU  [pleased  that  he  has  surmised  it].  I  believe  that's 
right,  Abrahams;  second  thoughts  seem  to  be  always  the  best. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  25 

ABRAHAMS  [very  loudly].  Really,  Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  I'm 
sorry,  sir,  but  the  fact  is  I  can't  possibly —  [Enter  SIMPSON 
from  ante-room.] 

SIMPSON  [interrupting  ABRAHAMS].  A  footman  from  His 
Royal  Highness,  the  Prince  Regent,  sir. 

BEAU  [quite  unconcernedly].  Yes,  you  can  let  him  come 
in  here.  [ABRAHAMS  looks  at  BEAU,  and  backs  up  a  trifle. 
Enter  footman.  Stands  below  door.'] 

BEAU  [without  looking  at  him].  Mortimer,  which  one  is 
it? 

MORTIMER  [who  had  come  in  from  bedroom].  Bendon, 
sir. 

BEAU  [at  right.     Graciously].     Very  well,  Bendon. 

FOOTMAN  [with  great  respect].  Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  His 
Royal  Highness  wishes  to  know  if  you  will  be  at  home  this 
afternoon  at  four  o'clock.  If  so,  he  will  call  upon  you  to  make 
arrangements  for  the  dance  at  Carlton  House. 

BEAU.    At  what  o'clock  did  you  say,  Bendon? 

BENDON  [with  low  bow].    At  four  o'clock,  sir. 

BEAU.  Say  to  His  Royal  Highness  to  make  it  half -past  four 
o'clock.  [Exit  footman  at  left,  followed  by  SIMPSON.  ABRA 
HAMS  is  overcome  with  wonder  at  thisj  and  looks  at  MOR- 
TIMER,  who  draws  himself  up  proudly] 

BEAU  [as  if  recollecting  his  presence].  You  were  saying, 
Mr.  Abrahams,  that  you  could  not  possibly — 

ABRAHAMS  [bowing,  changing  attitude  and  tone].  H'm, 
ach — hem — that  I  should  be  very  glad — though  I  am  just  now 
rather  pressed  myself.  How  much  did  you  say,  sir? 

BEAU.  How  much  did  I  say,  Mortimer?  [Enter  REG 
INALD,  same  door.] 

REGINALD  [boisterously  rushing  to  BEAU,  left  center].  Am 
I  in  good  time,  Uncle? 

BEAU  [startled].  Reginald,  how  often  have  I  told  you  to 
enter  a  room  properly.  You  came  in  like — like  a — Mortimer, 
what  did  Mr.  Reginald  come  like? 

MORTIMER  [reproachfully].     Like  a  thunderbolt,  sir. 

BEAU.  Ah,  yes — like  a  thunderbolt;  very  unpleasant 
things,  thunderbolts.  Mortimer,  have  I  ever  seen  a  thunder 
bolt? 

MORTIMER.    Once,  sir. 

BEAU.    Yes;  I  once  saw  a  thunderbolt;  very  unpleasant 


26  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

things,  thunderbolts.  You  must  not  come  in  like  a  thunder 
bolt,  Reginald. 

REGINALD  [looking  at  ABRAHAMS].  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Uncle  Beau.  Are  you  busy? 

BEAU  [as  if  startled}.     I  beg  your  pardon— 

REGINALD.    Are  you  busy? 

BEAU.  Busy!  Ugh!  Never  employ  that  term  with  me. 
No  gentleman  is  ever  busy.  Insects  and  city  people  are  busy. 
This — ah — person  has  come  to  ask  my  assistance  in  some  little 
financial  matters,  and  I  think  I've  rather  promised  to  oblige 
him.  Mortimer,  go  with  this — ah — ah — person.  You  go  with 
my  valet.  [ABRAHAMS  bows  and  bows.]  Yes,  quite  so,  quite 
so.  [Exit  MORTIMER  and  ABRAHAMS  into  ante-room  at  left, 
ABRAHAMS  backing,  bowing  all  the  time.} 

REGINALD  [gloomily  sitting  on  sofa}.  I  was  too  late;  I 
missed  her. 

BEAU.  Don't  be  gloomy,  Reginald,  or  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  walk  with  you.  Nothing  is  more  conspicuous  than  melan 
choly.  [MORTIMER  returns — coughs.} 

BEAU.     Mortimer,  are  you  coughing? 

MORTIMER  [apologetically}.     Yes,  sir. 

BEAU  [at  right}.  Well,  I  wish  you  wouldn't.  You  wish 
to  speak  with  me? 

MORTIMER.  Yes,  sir.  [BEAU  crosses,  bowing  in  apology 
as  he  passes  REGINALD.]  Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  everything  is 
arranged  satisfactorily,  sir. 

BEAU.  Did  you  send  for  the  new  tailor,  what's  his  name, 
to  come  this  afternoon? 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.     And  have  you  written  the  letter  to  Mr.  Vincent? 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir,  all  ready  to  seal. 

BEAU.  Then  seal  it  and  dispatch  it  at  once.  And  now, 
Reginald,  come  with  me  and  you  shall  see  me  having  my  coat 
put  on.  [REGINALD  rises.  Exit  BEAU  and  REGINALD  into 
bedroom.  Enter  KATHLEEN  from  ante-room.} 

KATHLEEN.  La!  I  must  come  in  for  a  minute.  I  missed 
my  young  gentleman  in  the  Park,  and  I  ventured  back  to  ask 
how  we  are  to  discover  who  he  is.  That's  what  we  must  do 
somehow,  but  how?  [REGINALD  enters  from  bedroom.} 

REGINALD  [coming  down}.  Mr.  BrummelPs  snuff-box, 
Mortimer.  [REGINALD  and  KATHLEEN  recognize  each  other.] 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  27 

REGINALD.     Her  maid ! 

KATHLEEN  [to  MORTIMER].  Oh,  Lord!  The  very  young 
gentleman  himself. 

MORTIMER.    What! 

REGINALD  [at  left.  Suspiciously],  What  are  you  doing 
here? 

KATHLEEN  [at  center].  Why,  I  missed  you  in  the  Park, 
sjr — you  were  too  early.  [To  MORTIMER.]  Will  you  say 
something?  But  I  saw  you  in  advance  of  me.  [To  MOR 
TIMER.]  Give  utterance  to  something!  And  I  followed  you 
here  to  give  you  this  letter.  [Gives  note  to  REGINALD.  To 
MORTIMER.]  I  had  to  give  it  to  him  that  time. 

BEAU  [outside,  calling],  Reginald!  [MORTIMER  and 
REGINALD  rush  KATHLEEN  off  through  bay  window.  MOR 
TIMER  stands  at  window  after  drawing  curtain.  REGINALD 
crosses  to  table  at  left  center,  and  stands  back  of  same.  Enter 
BEAU  from  bedroom.] 

BEAU  [at  center  door].  Mortimer,  what  was  that  ex 
traordinary  commotion? 

MORTIMER  [at  right,  at  window,  innocently].  What  com 
motion,  sir? 

BEAU  [standing  in  doorway].  Mortimer,  don't  be  an  echo; 
how  often  have  I  told  you  that  servants  are  born  to  answer 
questions,  not  to  ask  them?  I  believe  you  said  the  sun  was 
shining?  [Crosses  to  window.] 

REGINALD  [very  loud,  stopping  him].  Uncle  Beau,  your 
snuff-box.  [Offering  box.] 

BEAU  [at  center.  Starts].  Ah!  I  knew  I  lacked  some 
thing;  I  perceived  I  had  on  my  coat,  my  fob,  my  waistcoat, 
my  unmentionables.  Dear  me,  yes,  it  was  my  snuff-box — 
thank  you,  thank  you.  [He  does  not  take  snuff-box.  He  is 
now  fully  dressed — long  brown  trousers,  fitting  very  closely 
around  the  leg  and  buttoned  around  the  ankle,  a  yellow  bro 
caded  waistcoat,  brown  coat,  ruffled  shirt  with  neckerchief,  fob 
with  many  seals.  He  crosses  to  dressing-table  and  arranges 
flowers — three  yelloiu  roses — in  his  coat.  MORTIMER  has 
crossed  to  table  and  stands  holding  hat,  gloves  and  stick.  REG 
INALD  has  the  snuff-box.  BEAU  turns  from  dressing-table, 
comes  to  the  center.  REGINALD  offers  him  the  snuff-box  open. 
BEAU  takes  a  pinch  with  courteous  nod  of  head.  REGINALD 
takes  pinch,  closes  box,  hands  it  to  BEAU,  who  holds  it  in  hand. 


28  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER  then  hands  him  gloves.  BEAU  arranges  them  in 
hand  very  precisely.  MORTIMER  then  hands  stick.  BEAU  puts 
this  in  just  right  position.  MORTIMER  then  hands  hat.  BEAU 
takes  it,  is  about  to  put  it  on,  then  looks  at  it,  stands  aghast, 
and  hands  it  back  •with  no  word,  but  just  an  expression  of 
complete  astonishment.  MORTIMER,  very  puzzled,  takes  it  and 
then  sees  that  he  has  handed  it  with  the  wrong  side  to  put  on. 
Bows  very  low  with  an  expression  of  great  chagrin.  Turns  it 
and  hands  it  to  BEAU.  BEAU  takes  it,  walks  to  mirror,  raises 
it  two  or  three  times  until  he  has  it  at  just  the  right  angle, 
then  puts  it  on.  Turns  to  REGINALD.] 

BEAU.  And  now,  Reginald,  I'll  make  your  fortune  for  you. 
I'll  walk  down  the  Mall  with  you  to  White's.  [Walks  to 
door,  followed  by  REGINALD,  as 


[THE  CURTAIN  FALLS.] 


THE  FIRST  ACT 
SCENE  Two 

The  BEAU'S  reception-room.  A  small  room,  furnished  in 
chintz.  Chippendale  sofa  at  the  right.  Large  entrance  at 
back  with  red  striped  chintz  curtains.  Palms  in  window. 
A  table  on  the  left  holds  a  standing  memorandum  tablet. 
Small  arm-chair  back  of  sofa.  Two  or  three  other  chairs 
scattered  around  the  room.  A  door  at  the  left.  BEAU 
BRUMMELL  at  the  rise  of  curtain  is  standing  by  table, 
looking  at  the  memorandum  tablet  through  his  eye-glass. 
He  is  dressed  as  in  Scene  One.  SIMPSON  draws  the  cur 
tains  at  the  back,  and  announces: 

SIMPSON.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn,  sir!  [SiMPSON  'then  leaves  the 
curtains  drawn  and  goes  out.  BEAU  turns  and  bows.'] 

BEAU.  Punctual  as  the  day,  and  twice  as  welcome.  [MRS. 
ST.  AUBYN  has  sailed  into  the  room  with  an  air  that  plainly 
says,  "  You  and  I  are  to  settle  some  important  things  to-day." 
She  Is  a  very  handsome  woman  of  about  thirty,  beautifully 
dressed,  and  showing  In  every  look  and  motion  the  woman 
accustomed  to  homage  and  command.  She  carries  a  fan, 
which  she  uses  to  emphasize  all  her  remarks."] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.    You  received  my  letter? 

BEAU  [with  another  bowl.  And  your  ambrosial  lock  of 
hair.  [MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  Is  at  first  offended,  and  then  laughs 
and  sits  on  sofa.] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Not  mine,  my  dear  Beau;  you  know  I'm 
not  such  a  fool.  [BEAU  is  not  at  all  taken  aback  by  the  mis 
take  he  has  made.] 

BEAU.  Ah,  no,  I  believe  I  am  mistaken;  but,  my  dear 
Horatia,  one  gets  things  of  this  sort  so  mixed ;  and  I  plead  in 
extenuation  that  the  wish  was  father  to  the  thought.  [BEAU 
sits  in  chair  near  table.] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Have  you  missed  me  really  these  last 
two  days?  Where  have  you  been?  It's  been  so  dull  without 

29 


30  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

you,  I  vow,  I  could  almost  have  married  again.  [Leans  for 
ward  and  speaks  very  confidentially.]  Now,  I  want  you  to 
do  me  a  favor,  will  you? 

BEAU.     Whisper  it  and  it  is  done. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Well,  then,  I  will  whisper.  I  want 
you  to  get  me  a  card  to  the  dance  at  Carlton  House. 

BEAU.  The  very  privilege  that  I  have  looked  forward  to. 
I  desire  to  present  you  myself  to  the  Prince,  and  witness  your 
triumph.  An  unselfish  pleasure,  you  would  say,  but  I  love 
you  too  well,  my  dear  Horatia,  not  to  sacrifice  myself  to  your 
greatest  opportunity.  [During  this  speech,  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN 
has  listened  with  a  slight  cynical  smile,  and  now  with  an  air 
of  finality  says:] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  I  would  not  give  up  your  devotion  al 
together — even  for  the  Prince's.  [With  great  empressement.] 

BEAU.     Take  both.     Mine  you  will  always  have. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Yet  I  think  my  devotion  for  you  over 
balances  yours. 

BEAU.  My  dear  madam,  you  are  too  good.  Do  you  know, 
I  fear  you  will  die  young? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [with  an  air  of  giving  up  this  contest  of 
wits].  Oh,  the  deuce  take  your  fine  phrases!  If  I  thought 
I'd  a  rival,  I'd  let  the  Prince  flit  somewhere  else.  You're 
clever  and  the  Prince  isn't.  He'll  be  very  dull.  Then  he'll 
be  harder  to  keep  within  bounds.  Oh,  [quickly  as  she  sees 
an  almost  imperceptible  shrug  of  BEAU'S  shoulder]  it  isn't 
that  I'm  afraid  for  my  reputation — that  was  damned  long  ago. 
But  I've  certain  notions  of  self-respect  which  aren't  in  the 
fashion  and  which  men  don't  seem  to  understand. 

BEAU   [very  quietly].     Marry  him! 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [with  real  astonishment].     What! 

BEAU  [taking  out  snuff-box  and  taking  snuff].     Marry  him. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.     It  is  impossible! 

BEAU.  With  you  all  things  are  possible.  [MRS.  ST.  AU 
BYN  laughs  nervously  and  steals  a  surreptitious  look  at  herself 
in  a  little  mirror  in  her  fan.] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  My  dear  Beau,  I  wish  you'd  make  plain 
sense  instead  of  pretty  sentences.  What  advantages  have  I 
to  recommend  me? 

BEAU.  I  will  ask  Mortimer  to  make  out  a  list,  but  I  may 
name  one  only — which  is  all-sufficient.  For  the  past  six  weeks 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  31 

I    have   admired   you.     [MRS.    ST.    AUBYN   rises  with   a 

laugh.] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Oh,  the  conceit  of  the  man!  But  tell 
me  what  style  of  woman  is  the  Prince  caught  by?  [BEAU 
rising  also] 

BEAU.  To  be  perfectly  frank  with  you,  the  Prince  admires 
the  fashion,  and  I — have  made  you  the  fashion.  I  am  expect 
ing  him  here  this  afternoon.  [MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  gives  a  shriek 
of  dismay] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Who?  The  Prince!  Gracious,  why 
didn't  you  tell  me?  [Runs  to  cheval-glass]  How  am  I 
looking?  There,  there,  you  needn't  answer;  I  know  it  is  one 
of  my  bad  days.  [BEAU  is  really  very  much  upset  by  this 
rushing  around  and  rapid  talking.  Speaks  as  though  quite 
overcome] 

BEAU.  My  dear  Horatia,  I  beg  of  you  not  to  rattle  on  so ; 
you've  no  idea  how  you  fatigue  me.  [SIMPSON  enters  at  back 
and  announces:] 

SIMPSON.  The  Duchess  of  Leamington,  Mr.  Sheridan,  sir! 
[SIMPSON  goes  out.  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  says  to  herself,  as  she 
comes  down  to  chair  at  right  of  sofa:] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Damme,  that  woman.  [The  DUCHESS 
and  MR.  SHERIDAN  enter  at  back.  The  DUCHESS  is  a  very 
much  painted  and  bewigged  old  young  woman,  dressed  in  a 
very  light  flowered  gown,  with  a  very  large  hat.  SHERIDAN  is 
still  handsome,  but  no  longer  young,  dressed  in  black  silk  knee- 
breeches,  black  coat  and  stockings;  he  wears  the  powdered  wig 
instead  of  short  hair  like  BEAU'S.  The  DUCHESS  makes  low 
curtsy  to  BEAU,  who  bows] 

BEAU.  Ah,  Duchess,  what  happy  accident!  Has  your  car 
riage  broken  down  at  my  door,  or  do  you  come  out  of  your 
own  sweet  charity?  We  were  just  speaking  of  you.  I  said 
you  were  the  best-dressed  woman  in  London,  but  Mrs.  St. 
Aubyn  did  not  seem  to  agree  with  me.  [To  SHERIDAN.] 
How  do  you  do,  Sherry?  [Nods  to  SHERIDAN  and,  crossing 
to  him,  offers  him  snuff-box.  SHERIDAN  takes  snuff] 

DUCHESS  [as  though  noticing  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  for  the  first 
time,  says  superciliously:]  How  d'ye  do? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [haughtily].  Mr.  Brummell  pleases  to 
be  witty  at  my  expense,  Duchess.  [Then  to  herself]  I  must 
be  on  my  guard.  I  don't  understand  Beau.  [The  DUCHESS 


32  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

seats  herself  on  sofa.  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  is  sitting  in  chair  just 
below  sofa.  BEAU  is  sitting  at  chair  near  table,  and  SHERIDAN 
is  still  standing.] 

DUCHESS.  Mr.  Sheridan  and  I  thought  we'd  come  to  tell 
you  the  news.  We  knew  you  were  never  up  till  noon,  and 
thought  you  might  want  to  hear  what's  going  on.  [SHERIDAN 
now  brings  down  chair  from  the  back,  and  sits  about  center.'} 

SHERIDAN.  And  when  we  were  nearly  here  we  remem 
bered  that  really  there  was  nothing  to  tell.  There  seems  to 
be  a  lamentable  dearth  of  scandal  and  gossip  nowadays.  I 
don't  know  what  we  are  coming  to.  The  ladies  have  abso 
lutely  nothing  to  talk  about. 

BEAU.  Sherry,  I  hear  the  "  School  for  Scandal "  is  to  be 
revived.  It  returns  to  us  every  year  like  Spring  and  the  in 
fluenza. 

SHERIDAN  [regretfully].  Yes,  but  it  won't  be  played  as  it 
used  to  be. 

BEAU  [thankfully].     No,  I  hope  not. 

DUCHESS.  Dear  me,  only  think  of  Miss  Motional  playing 
Lady  Teazle  now,  at  her  age!  Why  is  it  that  passe  people 
are  always  so  anxious  to  act?  \_With  a  little  affected  giggle."] 
I  wonder  you  don't  go  on  the  stage,  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [with  great  sweetness].  I  never  expe 
rienced  a  scandal  of  sufficient  eclat  to  warrant  such  a  step. 
But  you,  Duchess,  what  a  success  you  would  have ! 

DUCHESS.     Spiteful  creature! 

BEAU.  How  very  severe —  [SiMPSON  enters  at  back,  and 
announces:] 

SIMPSON.  His  Royal  Highness,  the  Prince  Regent,  sir,. 
[SiMPSON  exits.  The  PRINCE  enters;  does  not  remove  his  hat. 
All  rise.  DUCHESS  and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  curtsy.  SHERI 
DAN  bows  very  low  and  BEAU  bows  rather  condescendingly. ~] 

PRINCE.     Ah,  Beau,  good  morning. 

BEAU.  This  is  very  good  of  you,  sir.  The  Duchess,  I  am 
sure,  is  a  welcome  vision.  Sherry  you  know,  and  you  have 
heard — surely  you  have  heard  of  the  fascinating  Mrs.  St. 
Aubyn. 

PRINCE.     But  never  have  seen  half  enough. 

BEAU.     Where  will  you  put  yourself,  sir? 

PRINCE,  [very  emphatically  says  as  he  crosses  to  sofa:] 
Damme,  here.  [He  sits  on  sofa  and  makes  a  motion  with  his 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  33 

hand,  inviting  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  to  sit  beside  him.  To  do  this, 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  has  to  cross  in  front  of  the  DUCHESS,  which 
she  does  with  a  look  of  triumph,  while  the  DUCHESS,  in  mov 
ing  to  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN'S  vacated  seat,  turns  up  her  nose  as 
much  as  to  say,  ef  That  wont  last  long"  And  BEAU,  having 
witnessed  all  this  little  byplay,  has  a  little  smile  as  he  sees  all 
is  just  as  he  wants  it.~] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  I  believe,  sir,  Mr.  Sheridan  is  thinking 
of  a  new  play. 

PRINCE.  Don't  you  put  me  in,  Sherry,  or,  if  you  do,  mind 
you  make  me  thin.  A  fat  man  played  me  in  the  pantomime 
t'other  night,  and  damme,  I  had  him  locked  up. 

SHERIDAN  [with  great  deference}.  'Twas  a  libel,  sir,  a 
gross  libel. 

PRINCE.  I  heard,  Beau,  from  my  tailor,  this  morning,  that 
you  had  gotten  up  something  new  in  trousers.  Why  the 
deuce  haven't  you  told  me? 

DUCHESS  [with  affected  girlishness}.  Oh,  dear  me,  what 
are  the  new  trousers? 

SHERIDAN  [maliciously}.  Why,  Duchess,  I  don't  see  how 
they  can  possibly  interest  you. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Mr.  Sheridan,  Mr.  Sheridan,  both  your 
plays  and  your  conversation  ought  to  be  expurgated. 

DUCHESS.  Come,  come,  stop  all  this  banter,  and  Mr.  Brum- 
mell  will  tell  us. 

BEAU  [as  though  bored  by  all  this  chatter}.  You  must 
excuse  me,  Duchess;  I  have  contracted  a  cold. 

PRINCE.  I'll  tell  you,  Duchess;  they're  long  trousers  which 
are  slit  so  [pointing  with  his  cane  to  his  own  leg}  at  the  bot 
tom,  and  then  buttoned  tight.  Very  odd,  you  see,  and  striking. 

DUCHESS.  It  might  be  too  striking;  don't  you  think  it 
depends  on  the — eh — eh — circumstances?  [She  draws  her 
skirt  up  very  slightly,  and  strikes  her  leg  with  her  fan.} 

PRINCE.  Damme,  Duchess,  you're  right;  and  that's  just 
what  I  want  to  know  of  Beau  here,  whether  he  thinks  my  legs 
could  stand  'em. 

BEAU.  Really,  my  dear  fellow,  I'm  no  judge  of  calves. 
[All  laugh} 

SHERIDAN.     You  must  appeal  to  the  ladies,  sir. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [feigning  to  hide  her  face  with  her  fan}. 
No,  no;  I  object! 


34  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  means  they  are  little  trifles  not 
worth  mentioning. 

PRINCE.  Now,  I  object.  Besides,  I've  something  else  to 
talk  about.  What  think  you,  Beau,  of  Tuesday  week  for  the 
dance  at  Carlton  House?  [BEAU  rises  very  slowly,  takes 
tablet,  looks  it  over.] 

BEAU.  Tuesday,  Tuesday — yes,  I  think  I  might  make 
Tuesday  do.  [PRINCE  rises,  and  everybody  rises.'] 

PRINCE  [to  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN].  You  will  not  forget,  then, 
siren,  the  opening  quadrille  with  me.  May  I  take  you  to 
your  chair?  [MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  makes  him  a  low  curtsy.] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  You  make  me  wish  my  chair  was  at 
my  own  door,  instead  of  at  Mr.  Brummeirs. 

BEAU.  That's  very  good,  very  good.  [MRS.  ST.  AUBYN 
curtsies  with  a  look  of  triumph  to  the  DUCHESS.  The  PRINCE 
holds  out  his  hand.  She  places  her  hand  lightly  on  his,  curtsies 
low  to  BEAU,  and  retires  up  to  the  center  door,  while  the 
PRINCE  is  making  his  adieus,  which  he  does  by  simply  nodding 
to  the  DUCHESS  and  SHERIDAN,  most  graciously  nodding  to 
BEAU;  and  then  he  takes  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN'S  hand  again  and 
they  go  off  chattering.] 

DUCHESS  [who  has  witnessed  this  with  ill-concealed  envy], 
Now,  Mr.  Brummell,  promise  me  you'll  bow  to  me  at  the  play 
to-night.  You  bowed  to  Lady  Farthingale  last  week  Thurs 
day,  and  she  has  given  herself  airs  ever  since. 

BEAU.  After  the  play,  Duchess,  after  the  play.  If  I  looked 
at  you  once  during  the  play,  I  could  never  bend  my  attention 
again  to  the  players. 

DUCHESS  [with  a  girlish  giggle].  And  that,  Mr.  Brum 
mell,  would  damn  the  play. 

BEAU.  Yes,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  did.  It  wouldn't  be 
the  first  play  I've  damned.  [DUCHESS  curtsies,  SHERIDAN 
bows,  and  they  go  off  at  center  door.  BEAU  takes  up  memor 
andum  tablet  and  goes  toward  door,  left,  reading  as  he  goes] 
Let  me  see — Thursday,  lunch  with  Lord  and  Lady  Pleasant, 
then  on  to  Mrs.  Hearsays — pour  passer  le  temps.  Dinner 
with  the  Dowager  Countess  of  Alimony,  dance  at  Gordon 
House,  then  to  the  Rag,  then  to  the  Raleigh,  then  to  Vauxhall. 
[BEAU  goes  out.  SIMPSON  enters  at  center  door,  showing  in 
MR.  VINCENT.  VINCENT  is  a  stout,  red-faced  man,  bluff 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  35 

manner,  dressed  rather  loudly,  with  brown  bob-wig,  and  he 
drops  his  h's.} 

SIMPSON.     Whom  shall  I  say,  sir? 

VINCENT.  Never  mind  introducing  me.  I'll  introduce  my 
self — tell  him  a  gentleman  wishes  to  see  him  in  answer  to  his 
message;  he'll  understand. 

SIMPSON.  Yes,  sir.  [ SIMPSON  goes  out  at  left  door  with 
a  look  of  disdain  at  VINCENT.] 

VINCENT  [who  is  in  a  state  of  great  excitement}.  Well, 
am  I  really  in  the  great  Mr.  Brummell's  house?  I  thought 
I'd  show  my  appreciation  of  the  honor  I  feel  in  Mr.  Brum 
mell's  suit  for  my  daughter's  'and  by  answering  his  message 
in  person.  But,  really,  now  I'm  'ere,  I'm  not  sure  I've  done 
the  right  thing.  It's  perfectly  absurd,  ridiculous,  but  I'm 
slightly  nervous.  I,  the  most  successful  cloth  merchant  of  the 
day — unreasonable!  I  must  appear  at  my  ease  or  I  shall  fail 
to  make  an  impression.  Let  me  see,  what  shall  I  say  when 
he  comes  in?  After  greeting  him  cordially,  but  with  dignity, 
which  is  due  to  my  position,  I'll  tell  him  in  the  proper  lan 
guage,  with  a  few  figures  of  speech  to  show  I'm  a  man  of 
some  learning — he's  coming.  [Shows  great  nervousness.  Be 
gins  to  bow  very  low,  moving  first  on  one  foot,  then  on  the 
other,  rubbing  his  hands  together.] 

BEAU  [enters  from  left  door;  tablet  in  hand;  as  he  comes 
on  he  says:}  Sunday — Sunday! — 

VINCENT.     He's  coming,  he's  coming. 

BEAU.  Sunday  after  service,  lunch  with  Lady  Sybilla — 
Sybilla!  She  is  "  un  tant  soit  peu  passe, >f  but  there  was  a  time, 
there  was  a  time,  when  poor  Sybilla  and  I —  [VINCENT'S 
bowings  and  movements  now  attract  BEAU'S  attention,  and  he 
looks  at  him  through  eye-glass.} 

BEAU  [to  himself}.  Ah,  yes,  the  new  tailor.  [Aloud.} 
I  will  speak  with  you  presently.  I  am  somewhat  occupied  just 
now.  [Resumes  soliloquy.}  Dinner  with  Figgles — silly  beast, 
Figgles,  but  delicious  truffles.  [ViNCENT  has  still  continued 
to  bow.} 

BEAU  [looks  at  him  again}.  Would  you  be  so  kind  as  not 
to  wobble  about  in  that  way?  [VINCENT  stops  a  moment .} 

BEAU.  Thank  you.  [Resumes  soliloquy.}  Then  on  to 
Lady  Ancient's — very  tedious,  but  I  must  go  or  the  poor 


36  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

woman's  rooms  will  be  quite  vacant.  [ViNCENT  has  again 
resumed  his  bowing  and  clasping  and  unclasping  his  hands.] 

BEAU  [looks  at  him].  Did  you  hear  what  I  observed? 
Would  you  be  kind  enough  not  to  wobble  about  in  that  way, 
and  please  do  not  wash  your  hands  incessantly  with  imaginary 
soap,  or  chassez  about  in  that  manner?  You  have  no  idea  how 
you  distress  me.  [ViNCENT  never  stops,  growing  more  and 
more  nervous.]  How  very  extraordinary;  he  does  not  seem 
to  be  able  to  stop.  Perhaps  he  is  suffering  with  St.  Vitus's 
dance.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  employ  a  person  so  afflicted. 
Well,  I  won't  dismiss  him  at  once.  I'll  turn  my  back  on  him 
so  I  can't  see  him.  [BEAU  turns  his  back  to  VINCENT.]  Let 
me  see,  where  was  I — ah — yes,  Lady  Ancient's  very  tedious,  but 
I  must  go  or  the  poor  woman's  rooms  will  be  quite  empty; 
then  on  to  the  club. 

VINCENT  [very  deprecatingly].     But,  sir — 

BEAU.  I'll  speak  with  you  presently.  I  am  somewhat  occu 
pied  just  now,  and,  although  my  back  is  turned,  I  can  feel  you 
are  wobbling  about.  [To  himself.]  I  think  I  might  venture 
to  play  again  with  my  present  prospects,  Monday — Monday — 

VINCENT  [who  is  noiu  getting  restive,  and  realizes  he  is 
being  treated  badly].  But! — 

BEAU.     Please  do  not  say  "  but "  again, 

VINCENT.     My  lord! — 

BEAU.     Nothing  so  commonplace. 

VINCENT.    Sir — 

BEAU.  Very  well,  I  suppose  I  had  better  speak  with  him 
— the  sooner  it  is  over  the  better.  You've  come  to  see  me 
about  my  suit,  I  suppose. 

VINCENT.  Yes,  the  honor  it  confers  upon  my  daughter  and 
myself — 

BEAU.  It's  affected  his  head.  Does  your  daughter  sew, 
also? 

VINCENT  [surprised].  Oh,  beautifully,  Mr.  Brummell, 
but— 

BEAU.  I  must  ask  you  to  omit  your  "  buts."  Now,  if  you 
will  stand  perfectly  still  for  a  few  moments,  I  will  endeavor 
to  ask  you  one  or  two  questions;  but  you  must  try  to  stand 
still,  and  if  you  try  very  hard,  you  may  succeed.  But  do  try 
— there's  a  good  man — try,  try,  try  again.  [Aside.]  I'm  so 
sorry  for  him.  He  must  suffer  so.  Well,  I  won't  look  at  him. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  37, 

[Turns  away  and  sits  down  at  table.  During  all  this  time 
VINCENT  has  been  bowing,  trying  to  stand  still,  but  not  suc 
ceeding,  owing  to  his  great  embarrassment.]  Now,  have  you 
any  new  cloths? 

VINCENT.  My  dear  sir,  I  was  not  aware  that  you  were 
at  all  interested  in  cloths.  [Looks  around  for  a  chair,,  and 
goes  up  to  back  of  room  to  get  one.] 

BEAU.     He's  violent — he's  going  to  attack  me. 

VINCENT  [bringing  down  the  chair  near  to  BEAU].  Yes, 
there  are  some  very  fine  new  cloths.  Now,  if  you'll  allow; 
me — • 

BEAU.  Certainly  not,  sir;  certainly  not.  [Aside.]  Poor 
man,  I  suppose  he  never  waited  upon  anyone  before. 

VINCENT  [can  now  stand  it  no  longer,  and  rises].  This  is 
too  much.  'Tis  outrageous.  I'll  not  stand  it,  sir.  I  am  a 
gentleman,  sir. 

BEAU.    Then  why  don't  you  behave  like  one? 

VINCENT.     I've  come  here — 

BEAU.  Of  course,  you've  come  here,  that's  very  evident. 
You've  come  in  answer  to  my  message,  haven't  you? 

VINCENT.  Yes,  sir,  I've  come  in  answer  to  your  message 
asking  for  my  daughter's  'and — 

BEAU.     Your  daughter's  what? 

VINCENT.     My  daughter's  'and — > 

BEAU.  Your  daughter's  hand?  [If  begins  to  dawn  upon 
him.]  I  beg  your  pardon. 

VINCENT.  I  came  to  accept  your  offer  of  marriage,  but  I've 
altered  my  intention. 

BEAU.     Dear  me,  you  are — 

VINCENT.     Mr.  Holiver  Vincent,  sir. 

BEAU  [aside].  And  I  thought  he  was  the  tailor!  [Aloud.] 
A  thousand  apologies;  won't  you  be  seated?  I  was  very 
much  preoccupied.  I  ask  you  a  thousand  pardons — but  [ViN- 
CENT  has  begun  to  bow  and  wobble  again]  what  can  you  ex 
pect  if  you  will  wobble  about  in  that  manner,  my  dear  Sir 
Oliver!  [VlNCENT,  indignant,  again  is  soothed  by  title] 

VINCENT.  Not  Sir  Holiver  yet,  Mr.  Holiver — Mr.  Holi 
ver  Vincent,  at  your  service. 

BEAU.  I  only  regret  that  you  did  not  say  so  before. 
[SIMPSON  enters.] 

SIMPSON.     Sir,  the  Duke  of  York  sends  word,  will  you  be 


3g  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

so  gracious  as  to  take  mutton  with  him  to-night?  [BEAU 
looks  at  VINCENT,  who  looks  pleadingly  at  him,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  Dine  with  me/'] 

BEAU  Send  my  polite  regrets  to  His  Royal  Highness  and 
say  I  dine  to-night  with  Mr.  Oliver  Vincent.  [SIMPSON  exits 
at  center  door.  BEAU  offers  his  snuff-box  to  VINCENT,  who 
takes  a  pinch  and  snuffs  it  with  a  loud,  disagreeable  noise,  which 
shocks  BEAU  unspeakably. 1 

[THE  CURTAIN  FALLS.] 


THE  SECOND  ACT 

The  ballroom  at  Carlton  House,  a  large,  stately  room  hung 
in  yellow  damask — yellow  damask  furniture.  On  the 
right,  a  door  leading  into  reception  room.  On  the  left 
are  three  curtained  recesses.  At  the  back  a  large  door 
way  extends  the  whole  width  of  room;  it  is  curtained  with 
yellow  brocade  curtains,  which  are  looped  back,  showing 
a  long  hall  hung  with  mirrors;  it  leads  to  supper  room. 

On  the  stage,  at  rise  of  curtain,  is  the  PRINCE,  standing  near 
the  center,  talking  to  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  The  PRINCE  is 
dressed  in  black,  with  the  blue  ribbon  of  the  Garter; 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  in  elaborate  evening  dress.  SHERIDAN, 
the  DUCHESS  OF  LEAMINGTON,  LADY  FARTHINGALE, 
LORD  MANLY  and  other  guests  are  standing  at  back. 

PRINCE  [a  little  impatiently,  as  though  he  had  been  wel 
coming  guests  until  tired].  Anyone  else,  damme;  I'm  ready 
to  dance.  [Servant  enters  from  the  door  on  the  right.] 

SERVANT.  Mr.  Brummell,  Mr.  Oliver  Vincent,  Miss  Vin 
cent.  [Servant  steps  to  one  side  of  door  as  MR.  BRUMMELL 
comes  in  with  MARIANA,  her  hand  resting  lightly  on  his. 
The  DUCHESS  then  steps  forward  and  takes  MARIANA'S 
hand.  MR.  BRUMMELL  steps  back  to  the  side  of  VINCENT, 
who  has  followed  them  on.  The  DUCHESS  leads  MARIANA 
to  the  PRINCE.  While  this  is  going  on,  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN, 
who  has  stared  in  amazement,  says:] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  What's  this  presentation  for:  does  it 
mean  money  for  the  Duchess?  She  does  not  need  it. 

DUCHESS  [as  she  presents  MARIANA].  Your  Royal  High 
ness — Miss  Vincent.  [Both  curtsy  to  the  PRINCE.] 

PRINCE.  This  places  me  deeper  than  ever  in  Mr.  Brum- 
mell's  debt.  [The  DUCHESS  and  MARIANA  back  away  and 
retire  to  the  back  of  room,  where  they  are  joined  by  SHER 
IDAN.  BEAU  now  advances  to  the  PRINCE,  closely  followed 
by  VINCENT,  who  is  greatly  excited.] 

39 


4o  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.  Sir,  I  have  the  honor  to  present  my  friend,  Mr. 
Oliver  Vincent. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [aside].  It's  Mr.  Brummell  who  is  at 
the  bottom  of  this.  I  think  I  begin  to  see. 

PRINCE.  Mr.  Vincent?  Is  this  the  Mr.  Vincent,  of  the 
City  ?  For,  egad,  sir,  I  am  pleased — 

VINCENT  [greatly  embarrassed].  Your  Highness,  sir,  the 
honor  is  all  mine,  ah,  all  mine,  Your  Highness,  thank  you  for 
your  cordiality,  Your  Highness.  [Offers  the  PRINCE  his  hand. 
BEAU  quietly  throws  it  up,  and  motions  VINCENT  away  to 
the  back,  covering  his  retreat,  as  it  were,  by  his  own  self- 
possession  and  the  look  of  humorous  appeal  which  he  gives  to 
the  PRINCE.] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Your  Royal  Highness,  what  does  Beau 
mean?  Really,  sir,  I  think  you  take  too  much  from  him. 
They  are  from  the  City,  these  Vincents;  you  can  see  its  dust 
on  their  feet. 

PRINCE  [chuckling  at  his  own  wit].  Yes,  damme,  madam; 
but  it's  gold  dust. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [with  a  slight  smile,  such  as  an  offended 
goddess  might  give}.  Pray,  sir,  let  us  have  the  dance  now. 
[The  PRINCE  offers  her  his  hand  and  they  take  their  places  at 
the  head  of  the  set.  SHERIDAN  leads  the  DUCHESS  to  one 
yide.  LORD  MANLY  leads  LADY  FARTHINGALE  to  the 
other.] 

BEAU  [to  MARIANA].  May  I  have  the  delight  of  leading 
you  out  in  the  dance? 

MARIANA.  I  fear,  Mr.  Brummell,  you  will  find  me  but  a 
poor  dancer. 

BEAU.  I  know  you  dance  well,  or  I  should  not  have  asked 
you.  I  have  watched  you.  One  must  always  judge  for  one 
self.  [He  leads  MARIANA  to  the  head,  opposite  the  PRINCE. 
They  dance  an  old-fashioned  quadrille,  the  end  of  which  is  a 
deep  curtsy  from  the  ladies  and  a  bow  from  the  men.  The 
PRINCE  then  goes  up  to  center  door,  and  out  through  the  hall 
with  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.] 

PRINCE.  Egad!  Poor  Beau!  Your  charms  have  made  me 
false  to  my  friend. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Ah!  But  I  fear  Your  Royal  Highness 
is  fickle,  and  may  be  false  to  me,  too. 

PRINCE.     Zounds!     I  could  only  be  that  by  being  false  to 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  41 

myself.  [They  are  now  out  of  sight.  The  DUCHESS  has 
joined  BEAU  and  MARIANA,  LADY  FARTHINGALE  and  LORD 
MANLY.  The  latter  couple  now  curtsy  and  bow  and  exit 
through  center  door,  and  go  down  the  hall.] 

DUCHESS.  I  really  think  it  gives  one  more  eclat  to  dance 
with  Mr.  Brummell  than  to  dance  with  the  Prince. 

BEAU  [quite  sincerely].  I  really  think  it  does.  [The 
DUCHESS  and  MR.  SHERIDAN  then  bow,  and  also  go  out  at 
center  door,  meeting  VINCENT,  who  bows  to  them  in  a  most 
exaggerated  way  and  then  comes  down  toward  the  BEAU  and 
MARIANA.  BEAU  bows  in  courtly  fashion  and  also  goes  out 
through  center  door,  so  VINCENT  and  MARIANA  are  left  alone. 
MARIANA  is  a  charming  type  of  a  young  English  girl,  dressed 
in  white,  her  hair  in  soft  ringlets,  with  a  wreath  of  tiny  rose 
buds] 

VINCENT.  This  is  the  proudest  moment  of  my  life!  He 
had  heard  of  me;  he  recognized  me  at  once,  Mariana. 

MARIANA  [quizzically].  Of  course,  papa,  he  had  read 
your  name  on  his  buttons. 

VINCENT.  You  are  mistaken,  my  dear;  I  am  not  a  tailor, 
I  am  a  cloth  merchant.  Did  you  notice  how  cordial  His  Royal 
Highness  was?  [Regretfully]  I  was  too  stiff  with  him, 
much  too  stiff,  but  Mr.  Brummell  would  have  it  so. 

MARIANA  [still  trying  to  make  a  jest  of  it].  Quite  right, 
papa;  you  needed  your  dignity  and  His  Royal  Highness  did 
not. 

VINCENT.  Think,  Mariana,  what  a  difference  to-day  from 
yesterday.  Yesterday,  I  was  Vincent,  of  the  City — to-night, 
I  am  Vincent,  of  the  Court.  It  is  a  proud  position,  my  dear; 
think  of  it,  Holiver  Vincent,  the  Prince's  friend!  No  more 
"  The  Hoak,  the  Hash,  and  the  Bonny  Hivy  Tree."  No  more 
"  A  Weary  Lot  Is  Thine,  Fair  Maid."  [Imitates  the  playing 
of  a  piano]  No  more  going  to  sleep  after  dinner.  No,  my 
dear,  we'll  read  our  names  every  morning,  several  times  over, 
in  the  Court  Journal.  It'll  be  a  staggerer  for  your  Aunt  Jane 
at  'Oundsditch. 

MARIANA  [sadly].  I  think,  for  my  part,  we  are  very  well 
as  we  are,  and  very  happy.  And  I  like  the  old  songs,  and 
I  like  my  old  father  just  as  he  is. 

VINCENT.  Pooh!  My  child,  I  am  ambitious,  and,  if  you 
marry  the  Beau,  in  a  year  from  now,  I  may  wear  a  coronet — ; 


42  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

a  coronet.  [Makes  a  gesture  as  though  placing  a  coronet  on 
his  head.'] 

MARIANA.  Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown,  papa, 
and  how  much  are  you  going  to  give  for  the  coronet?  Any 
body  can  buy  one  nowadays.  Give  your  money  for  it,  by  all 
means — but  not  your  daughter's  happiness.  [Crossing  and  go 
ing  up  toward  center  as  though  to  end  the  discussion.] 

VINCENT  [follows  her  and  speaks  pleadingly].  Mariana, 
I  have  been  a  kind  father  to  you.  My  heart  is  set  upon  the 
accomplishment  of  this  thing.  You  have  ever  been  a  dutiful 
child. 

MARIANA  [turning  quickly'].  And  you  shall  ever  find  me 
so.  But  I  hold,  papa,  that  a  woman's  heart  alone  should  guide 
a  woman's  choice. 

VINCENT  [turns  away  vexed] .     Yes,  I  know — but — 

MARIANA.  Still,  my  affection  for  you  shall  largely  influence 
my  decision.  Go,  my  ambitious  father.  [Goes  to  him  and 
puts  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.]  I  will  see  what  I  can  do  to 
win  the  coronet  for  your  head. 

VINCENT  [delightedly  kisses  her  forehead].  That's  a  good 
child.  [He  goes  up  and  out  through  center  door.] 

MARIANA.  If  I  can  only  tear  the  arrow  from  my  heart. 
[Walks  slowly  up  and  down]  No  dream  of  greatness,  no 
wish  even  of  my  father's,  should  for  one  instant  weaken  my 
devotion  to  Reginald  if  I  could  believe  him  true  to  me.  But 
he  has  ceased  to  write ;  I  hear  of  him  only  in  social  dissipation. 
He  is  gay  and  merry,  and  Mariana  is  forgotten.  Since  I  can 
not  be  happy,  there  is  only  my  dear  old  father  to  be  pleased. 
And  yet — and  yet —  [Starts  and  turns  as  BEAU,  the  DUCH 
ESS  and  MR.  VINCENT  enter  from  the  center  door.] 

DUCHESS  [as  she  comes  gaily  down].  Ma  mie,  you  are 
very  fortunate,  I  vow — you  will  be  the  talk  of  the  town  to 
morrow — to  have  pirouetted  with  our  Beau  here.  'Tis  no 
small  favor,  I  assure  you — and  one  his  Beauship  has  never  yet 
bestowed  upon  his  doting  Duchess — you  naughty,  naughty 
Beau !  [Shakes  her  fan  at  BEAU.]  And  I  must  say,  ma  mief 
you  comported  yourself  right  well,  right  limber  and  nimbly  for 
a  debutante.  Though  I  am  no  bad  executante  on  the  tips  of 
my  toes  myself,  i'  faith.  [Gives  a  little  pas  seul.] 

BEAU  [putting  up  glasses  and  looking  at  her  critically].  Ah, 
Duchess,  all  you  need  is  a  ballet  skirt  and  a  tambourine.  But, 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  43 

egad,  we  forgot  the  Prince — the  Merchant  Prince — we  have 
just  left  the  title!  Permit  me,  my  dear  Duchess,  to  present 
to  you  the  money.  Mr.  Oliver  Vincent — Her  Grace,  the 
Duchess  of  Leamington. 

DUCHESS  [as  she  curtsies  to  VINCENT,  who  bows  very  low]. 
Deuce  take  me,  Mr.  Brummell,  have  you  ever  known  me  to 
refuse  a  presentation  to  money? 

BEAU.  No,  my  dear  Duchess,  and  I  have  known  you  to 
become  very  familiar  with  it  at  the  card-table  without  even  a 
formal  introduction. 

DUCHESS.  Beau,  I  vow  you're  a  brute.  [She  crosses  to 
VINCENT  and  they  go  up  a  little.'] 

BEAU  [crossing  to  MARIANA],  You  hear  that,  Mariana. 
I  am  a  brute,  'tis  true,  and  I  am  looking  forward  to  a  con 
junction  of  Beauty  and  the  Beast.  [Turning  to  the  DUCH- 
ESS.]  Duchess,  shall  Sir  Money  conduct  you  to  the  card- 
room? 

DUCHESS  [smiling  at  VINCENT],  With  pleasure,  if  he'll 
stay  there  with  me. 

BEAU.  No  fear  of  that,  for  your  Grace  is  sure  to  put  him 
in  your  pocket. 

DUCHESS.  Incorrigible!  Come,  Mr.  Vincent,  your  arm, 
your  arm;  'fore  Gad,  we  are  routed.  [Takes  VINCENT'S  arm; 
they  turn  to  go.~\ 

BEAU  [stopping  them~\.  One  moment,  my  dear  Vincent. 
[BEAU  bows  to  DUCHESS,  who  joins  MARIANA,  and  they  stand 
talking,  while  BEAU  speaks  to  VINCENT.]  My  valet  has 
neglected  placing  my  purse  in  my  pocket,  and  I  am  going  to 
allow  you  the  privilege  of  lending  me  five  hundred  guineas 
before  you  run  away  with  the  Duchess. 

VINCENT  [heartily}.  Certainly,  my  dear  Mr.  Brummell, 
certainly,  sir,  take  ten —  [Puts  his  hand  in  his  pocket.] 

BEAU  [with  a  look  of  horror].  Not  here,  my  good  sir,  not 
here — in  the  card-room. 

VINCENT  [going  up  to  the  DUCHESS].  My  arm,  madam, 
my  purse  and  myself  are  entirely  at  your  service. 

DUCHESS  [taking  his  arni\.  I  only  need  one  of  them;  but 
come,  come,  I  see  you  are  quite  a  courtier.  Au  revoir,  Beau. 
[To  MARIANA,  as  she  waves  a  kiss.]  Ma  cherel  [Curtsies 
to  the  BEAU,  waves  her  hand  airily  to  MARIANA,  and  goes  off 
with  VINCENT.] 


44  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

BEAU.     Your  most  humble  and  devoted  slave,  Duchess. 

MARIANA.     You  do  not  follow  the  cards,  Mr.  Brummell? 

BEAU.     They  are  too  fickle;  I  am  always  unlucky. 

MARIANA.  Unlucky  at  cards,  lucky  in  love—  [Stops 
abruptly,  vexed  that  she  has  mentioned  the  word  ff  love"] 

BEAU.     That  is  why  I  am  here. 

MARIANA  [a  little  coquettishly}.  Well,  what  sort  of  a 
hand  shall  I  deal  you? 

BEAU  [with  great  meaning}.     Yours! 

MARIANA   [with  equal  meaning}.     Are  diamonds  trumps? 

BEAU  [reproachfully}.     No.     Hearts! 

MARIANA  [lightly}.     I  haven't  one  in  the  pack. 

BEAU.     Nay,  but  you  deal  your  cards  badly. 

MARIANA.  That  is  because  I  have  chosen  Nature,  not  Art, 
to  be  my  mistress. 

BEAU.  By  my  manners!  I've  a  mind  to  bring  Dame  Na 
ture  into  fashion  again. 

MARIANA.  Then  there's  not  a  woman  here  could  show  her 
face. 

BEAU.  But  you.  And  if  you  would  deign  to  be  seen  al 
ways  on  my  arm — 

MARIANA.  Mercy!  Mr.  Brummell,  I  fear  you  would  wear 
me  as  you  do  your  coat,  and  throw  me  aside  when  I'm 
wrinkled. 

BEAU  [with  a  shudder}.  Don't  mention  wrinkles;  they 
give  me  the  jaundice. 

MARIANA  [seriously}.  I  cannot  but  remember  that  only 
one  short  week  ago  every  bench  in  the  Mall,  every  lady's  tea- 
table,  every  entr'acte  of  the  play  was  the  occasion  for  report- 
ings  of  Mr.  Brummell's  fancy  for  the  Honorable  Mrs.  St. 
Aubyn. 

BEAU.  You  cannot  imagine  I  have  not  favored  some  women 
more  than  others.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  was  clever  and  amused 
me.  We  passed  our  time  in  laughter,  not  in  loving.  [MRS. 
ST.  AUBYN,  who  has  entered  at  back,  hears  this  last  remark.} 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  I  fear  I  am  malapropos,  but  I  will  be 
deaf  and  blind.  [She  comes  down  the  center,  while  VINCENT, 
SHERIDAN,  LADY  FARTHINGALE  and  the  DUCHESS  enter  also 
at  center  door.} 

MARIANA.  It  would  be  a  pity,  madam,  to  destroy  two 
faculties  which  serve  you  to  such  good  purpose.  [Crosses  and 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  45 

passes  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  with  a  slight  bend  of  her  head,  and 
joins  VINCENT.] 

BEAU.  Oh,  that's  very  good.  [To  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN,  as 
he  crosses  to  her.]  Don't  you  think  that's  very  good?  [They 
stand  together,  apparently  talking,  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  very 
angrily.] 

VINCENT  [to  MARIANA].  A  most  bewitching  woman  that, 
but  I'm  sorry  she  would  insist  upon  hunting  Mr.  Brummell, 
for  I  knew  you  wouldn't  want  to  be  interrupted.  I  did  all  I 
could  with  politeness.  I  took  her  to  every  other  room  before 
this.  [MARIANA  and  VINCENT  go  out  at  center  door,  as 
LORD  MANLY  comes  rushing  on,  almost  running  into 
them] 

LORD  MANLY  [he  is  a  fop  of  the  period,  and  quite  a  little 
the  worse  for  drink].  My  dear  Beau!  My  dear  Beau!  [A 
little  louder.  BEAU  pays  no  attention  to  him]  My  dear 
Beau!!  [Still  louder.  BEAU  finally  looks  at  him]  Lord 
Crawlings  is  cheating  at  the  card-table.  It  is  a  fact!  He  has 
cards  up  his  sleeve.  What  shall  I  do? 

BEAU.     Cheating  at  the  card-table? 

LORD  MANLY.     Yes;  he  has  cards  up  his  sleeve. 

BEAU  [thoughtfully].     Cards  up  his  sleeve! 

LORD  MANLY.     Yes.     What  shall  I  do? 

BEAU.     Well,  if  he  has  cards  up  his  sleeve,  bet  on  him. 

LORD  MANLY  [with  a  blank  stare] .  Oh — thank  you.  [He 
joins  LADY  FARTHINGALE  and  offers  her  a  chair,  which  she 
refusing,  they  stand  conversing  with  other  guests] 

LADY  FARTHINGALE.  If  Mr.  Brummell  marries  Miss  Vin 
cent,  he'll  have  no  more  difficulty  in  paying  for  his  clothes, 
though  I  hear  he's  sadly  in  debt  now. 

SHERIDAN.  Poor  Beau!  He  will  never  be  able  to  forget 
the  old  gentleman's  cloth;  it  will  be  like  riding  to  wealth  on 
a  clothes-horse. 

DUCHESS  [who  has  been  looking  down  the  hall].  Lord, 
Mr.  Sheridan!  They  are  starting  for  supper.  You  can  do 
as  you  please,  but  I  want  an  oyster.  [SHERIDAN  and  DUCH 
ESS  go  off  at  center  door,  followed  by  LADY  FARTHINGALE, 
LORD  MANLY  and  other  guests] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [to  BEAU,  who  was  starting  to  go].  I 
insist  upon  a  few  words  with  you. 

BEAU.    Your  wishes  are  my  commands.     [He  is  now  stand- 


46  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

ing  in  the  door,  center,  so  he  can  look  down  the  hall.  MRS. 
ST.  AUBYN  is  walking  angrily  back  and  forth.] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  I  found  myself  quite  de  trop  when  I 
entered  the  room  a  few  minutes  ago. 

BEAU.     You  speak  of  impossibilities. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Pray,  spare  me;  I  overheard  your  last 
speech. 

BEAU.     You  mean  you  listened  to  what  I  said. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Well,  if  I  did — I  begin  to  see  through 
you  now. 

BEAU.     Happy  me! 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Did  you  think  me  blind  when  you  pre 
sented  these  Vincents  to  the  Prince? 

BEAU  [bowing  to  some  imaginary  guests  down  the  half}. 
How  do  you  do?  Who  could  think  those  eyes  blind? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  You  presented  me  to  the  Prince,  not 
for  my  own  sake,  but  for  yours.  'Twas  a  pleasant  way  to  be 
rid  of  me. 

BEAU.  No  way  with  such  a  destination  could  possibly  be 
pleasant.  ~ 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  You  have  puffed  the  Prince  with  the 
conceit  that  he  is  driving  you  out  of  my  affections  against  your 
will.  Suppose  he  were  to  know  the  truth? 

BEAU.  Royal  personages  are  so  rarely  told  the  truth  that 
if  he  did  hear  it  he  would  not  recognize  it.  How  do  you  do! 
[Again  bowing  to  some  imaginary  person.] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  What  would  become  of  his  friendship 
for  you,  do  you  think,  and  what  would  you  do  without  it  ? 

BEAU.     He  would  have  my  sincere  sympathy. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.     Suppose  I  were  to  inform  him? 

BEAU  [again  bowing].  How  do  you  do,  my  dear  Lady 
Betty;  how  do -you  do?  Yes,  presently — with  great  pleasure 
— h'm.  [Turning  and  apparently  paying  attention  to  MRS. 
ST.  AUBYN  for  the  first  time.]  My  dear  Horatia  would  not 
be  so  foolish  as  to  ruin  herself.  Would  the  Prince,  do  you 
think,  still  care  for  you  if  he  thought  I  no  longer  admired 
you?  He  affects  you  now  for  the  same  reason  he  wears  my 
coats,  because  I  have  made  you  as  I  made  them — the  Fashion. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [triumphantly].  But  there's  something 
that  binds  one  faster  to  a  man  than  the  button  of  a  coat. 
There  is,  my  dear  Beau,  such  a  thing  as  marriage. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  47 

BEAU.  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure!  There,  my  dear  madam,  I 
bow  to  your  vast  experience  [MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  makes  an 
impatient  movement],  but,  when  it  comes  to  a  question  of 
the  Prince's  wedding  coat,  I  fear  you  will  find  the  buttons 
are  sewed  on  with  a  very  light  thread. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  There  you  are  wrong.  You  seem  to 
forget,  my  dear  Beau,  that  the  Prince  already  dotes  on  me. 
We  are  both  playing  a  little  game — you  and  I — but  I  am  per 
suaded  I  shall  win,  for  I  stake  on  a  heart.  [Sweeps  past 
BEAU  with  a  superb  gesture,  toward  the  left.] 

BEAU  [very  quietly].  Your  fortune  will  turn,  for  you 
stake  on  a  knave. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  What  will  take  my  knave  when  the  king 
is  out  of  the  pack? 

BEAU.  Why,  then,  I  think  a  queen  might  turn  up.  [Be 
fore  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  can  crush  him  with  the  reply  that  is  on 
her  lips,  VINCENT  enters.] 

VINCENT.  Ah,,  'ere  you  are,  my  dear  Mr.  Brummell;  you 
are  losing  your  supper,  and  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn,  too,  is  depriving 
the  feast  of  its  most  brilliant  hornament. 

BEAU.  Yes,  truly,  it  is  too  selfish  of  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn.  Mr. 
Vincent,  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  must  permit  you  to  conduct  her  to 
the  supper-room. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [sarcastically].  Surely,  Mr.  Vincent  did 
not  do  me  the  honor  of  leaving  the  table  to  search  me  out. 

VINCENT.  'Fore  Gad,  madam,  though  I  did  see  a  vacant 
seat  next  His  Royal  Highness,  in  truth  I  came  to  look  for  my 
daughter. 

BEAU.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  will  hardly  permit  the  chair  which 
awaits  her  next  to  the  Prince  to  remain  vacant.  [Takes  MRS. 
ST.  AUBYN'S  hand  and  hands  her  with  great  empressement  to 
VINCENT.]  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Vincent,  I  will  go  through  the 
rooms  for  your  daughter.  [MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  stops,  gives 
BEAU  a  look,  is  about  to  make  a  scene,  then  thinks  better  of  it, 
and  lets  VINCENT  lead  her  from  the  room.] 

BEAU.  You  amused  me  once,  but  you  do  so  no  longer. 
No,  you're  clever;  yes,  you  are  clever,  and  you  dress  to  per 
fection,  but  Mariana  has  all  your  charms  and  more — a  heart! 
Horatia  St.  Aubyn,  your  day  in  the  world  is  waning ;  Mariana's 
reign  begins.  I  will  go  and  inform  her  so.  She  cannot  be 
insensible  to  my  regard,  to  my  love,  for,  strange  to  say,  I 


48  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

begin  to  think  I  do  love  her.  Yes,  I  believe  I  do.  [Quite 
seriously.]  And  I  think  I  love  her  madly — yes,  I  do,  I  love 
her  madly.  [Stands  for  a  moment  in  deep  thought;  then  walks 
slowly  off  through  center  door  down  the  hall.  MARIANA 
enters  from  door  down  right  from  reception  room.  She  has  a 
note  in  her  hand.] 

MARIANA.  Kathleen  has  conveyed  to  me  my  own  letter  to 
Reginald  unopened.  She  says  he  has  left  his  lodgings,  and  his 
landlady  does  not  know  when  he  will  return.  I  am  afraid  men- 
are  not  what  they  are  represented  to  be.  [Sits  down  in  chair 
near  the  door  at  right.  LORD  MANLY  comes  on  through  hall 
and  center  door.  He  is  slightly  intoxicated.'] 

LORD  MANLY.     Ah!     Miss  Vincent!     What  happiness. 

MARIANA  [annoyed].     Here's  another! 

LORD  MANLY.  Won't  you  drink  something?  I  mean  eat 
something  ? 

MARIANA  [not  looking  at  him].  Thank  you,  I  care  for 
nothing!  There  can  be  no  mistake;  Kathleen  vowed  she  de 
livered  the  letters. 

LORD  MANLY.  You  won't  eat,  and  you  won't  drink — 
most  'straordinary !  What  will  you  do? 

MARIANA.  I  will  dispense  with  your  society,  sir.  [As  she 
rises,  she  looks  at  him.]  I  do  believe  he  is  intoxicated. 

LORD  MANLY.  She's  coy!  She's  coy!  No,  fair  creature, 
I  have  follolled — follolled — I  have  follolled — most  'straor 
dinary  I  can't  say  follolled — I  have  follolled  you  from  room 
to  room  to  find  you. 

MARIANA.     And,  having  found  me,  you  may  leave  me,  sir! 

LORD  MANLY.  Leave  you!  Never!  Never  will  I  stir 
from  this  sacred  spot.  [In  his  endeavor  to  stand  quite  still, 
he  staggers  and  almost  falls  over.]  I  mean  the  sacred  spot 
where  you  are.  Miss  Vincent,  I  adore  you!  Fact.  All  you 
do,  I  see  through  rosy-colored  glasses. 

MARIANA.  Wine-colored  glasses  you  mean,  sir.  Let  me 
pass ! 

LORD  MANLY.  No,  fair  tantalizer.  [Nods  his  head  with 
great  satisfaction.]  Good  word — tantalizer.  I  will  speak; 
my  heart  is  full. 

MARIANA.     There  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  fullness. 

LORD  MANLY.  Here  on  my  knees  [looks  at  knees] — egad, 
look  at  my  knees.  I  have  four  knees  instead  of  two  knees — 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  49 

but,  no  matter — here  on  all  my  knees  [kneels,  almost  falling'] 
I  will  pour  out — 

MARIANA.     More  liquor,  sir!     You  do  not  need  it. 

LORD  MANLY.  You  cannot  ignore  me,  my  love,  my  pas 
sion,  my  adorashion — I  mean  adoration— Miss  Vincent — I — 
[BEAU  has  come  on  through  center  door.  Unperceived,  he 
comes  down,  takes  LORD  MANLY  by  the  eart  making  him  rise 
and  stagger  back.} 

BEAU.  My  dear  Miss  Vincent,  how  unfortunately  uncon 
ventional. 

LORD  MANLY.     Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  you  are  no  gentleman. 

BEAU.     My  good  fellow,  you  are  no  judge. 

LORD  MANLY.     My  honor,  sir,  my  honor! 

BEAU.  Fiddlesticks!  Come,  trot  away,  trot  away.  You 
may  apologize  to  Miss  Vincent  to-morrow. 

LORD  MANLY.     You  apologize  to  me  now,  sir. 

BEAU.  I  never  had  occasion  to  do  such  a  thing  in  my  life. 
[Walks  up  and  looks  off  down  the  hall.]  Now  trot  away;  I 
think  I  see  the  Prince  approaching. 

LORD  MANLY.  Proach  aprincing! — I  mean  Prince  ap 
proaching.  Miss  Vincent,  it  is  with  deep  regret  I  say  adieu! 
[He  stumbles  to  door  at  right  and  goes  o/f.] 

BEAU  [coming  down  and  offering  MARIANA  a  chair.  She 
sits~\.  I  heartily  congratulate  you,  my  dear  Miss  Vincent,  on 
having  escaped  a  scene.  Nothing  but  the  regard  I  bear  you 
could  have  persuaded  me  to  so  nearly  incur  a  possible  fracas. 
Lord  Manly  was  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth,  and 
he  has  thought  it  necessary  to  keep  that  spoon  full  ever  since. 
But  now  that  we  have  found  one  another,  may  I  not  be  per 
mitted  to  continue  the  conversation  where  it  was  broken  off? 
I  desire  to  speak  with  you  seriously.  I  wish  to  make  a  con 
fession.  I  want  to  tell  you  what  perhaps  you  know — when 
I  first  sought  your  hand,  I  did  not  bring  my  heart.  I  admired 
you,  'tis  true,  but  I  did  not  love  you — not  then — not  madly! 
I  was — I  am  so  deeply  in  debt,  so  hemmed  in  by  my  creditors, 
so  hard  pressed  on  every  side,  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  do 
something  to  find  the  wherewithal  to  satisfy  their  just  demands, 
or  sink  under  my  misfortunes  and  give  up  forever  the  life  of 
the  world  which  had  become  my  very  breath  and  being.  The 
one  means  at  my  disposal  to  free  myself  from  my  difficulties 
was  a  marriage.  I  knew  your  fortune  and  I  sought  you  out. 


5o  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

The  admiration  I  entertained  for  you  the  first  few  days  deep 
ened  into  esteem,  and  finally  expanded  into  love — mad  love! 
That  is  why  I  have  rehearsed  this  to  you.  At  first  it  was 
your  fortune  which  allured  me — but  now  it  is  yourself! 

MARIANA.     Mr.  Brummell! 

BEAU.     Yet,  were  you  penniless,  I  would  not  wed  you. 

MARIANA  [rising  in  astonishment].     Mr.  Brummell! 

BEAU.  Because  I  would  not  drag  you  down  to  share  this 
miserable,  uncertain  lot  of  mine.  No !  I  would  seek  you  once 
to  tell  you  of  my  love,  and  then  step  aside  out  of  your  path, 
and  never  cross  it  again.  I  would  not  willingly,  purposely 
encompass  your  unhappiness. 

MARIANA  [slowly'].     I  begin  to  believe  in  you. 

BEAU.  I  remember  no  other  word  that  you  have  spoken. 
May  I  have  the  delight  of  pressing  my  very  unworthy  lips 
to  your  very  dear  hand?  [MARIANA  is  about  to  give  BEAU 
her  hand;  then  suddenly  withdraws  it.] 

MARIANA.  I  think,  Mr.  Brummell,  I  would  rather  you 
did  not. 

BEAU  [thoughtfully].  I  believe  you  are  right.  Yes,  I  am 
quite  sure  you  are!  Thank  you.  You  have  saved  me  from 
doing  something  very  commonplace. 

MARIANA.     You  are  not  angry,  sir? 

BEAU.  I  believe  it  is  exactly  fifteen  years  since  I  last  lost 
my  temper — but,  Mariana,  I  still  await  your  answer.  It  is 
a  new  sensation  for  Brummell  to  be  kept  waiting. 

MARIANA.  Will  you  leave  me,  sir,  to  consider  my  de 
cision?  I  pray  you,  Mr.  Brummell,  give  me  a  few  moments 
here — alone.  [She  motions  toward  recess  farthest  down  stage, 
and  crosses  toward  it.] 

BEAU.  I  would  refuse  you  nothing.  I  will  await  your 
pleasure  in  this  other  recess,  and  seek  you  here  in  five  slow 
minutes.  [He  motions  toward  the  recess,  the  farthest  up  stage, 
and  with  a  low  bow  to  MARIANA  goes  in  and  draws  the 
curtain.] 

MARIANA  [holding  the  curtain  which  closes  the  recess  where 
she  is  standing].  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  say  yes  to  him, 
although  a  certain  sympathy  pleads  in  his  behalf,  and  joins  with 
pride  to  prompt  me  against  Reginald,  who  has  neglected  me. 
Why  has  he  not  replied  to  my  letters?  'Tis  very  soon  to  be 
forgotten!  Oh,  Reginald,  to  be  absent  when  most  I  needed 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  51 

you!  You  are  no  better  than  the  men  of  the  world.  Father 
is  right.  Mr.  Brummell  shall  have  his  answer.  [The  PRINCE 
and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  enter  at  center  door,  so  much  engrossed 
in  each  other  that  they  do  not  see  MARIANA.]  Oh,  how  pro 
voking!  [MARIANA  hides  in  recess  and  draws  the  curtain.] 

BEAU  {who  has  also  looked  out  at  that  moment].  How 
very  annoying!  I  shall  have  to  play  Patience  on  a  window- 
seat,  and  wait. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Yes.  I  must  own  to  you,  my  senti 
ments  toward  Mr.  Brummell  are  greatly  altered.  Until  I 
met  you — can  you  believe  it? — I  positively  thought  him  a  man 
of  some  parts. 

BEAU  [from  the  window].     Really,  really! 

PRINCE.  Goddess!  Of  course,  he  has  been  much  with  me, 
and  naturally  smacks  somewhat  of  my  wit. 

BEAU.     Ah,  that's  very  good!    Very  good! 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  But  only  as  a  false  echo  does,  for  he 
has  none  of  your  delicate  pleasantry. 

BEAU.     No,  thank  goodness,  I  haven't. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  He  mimics  you  in  dress,  in  everything, 
but,  then,  you  know,  he  never  had  your  figure.  [The  PRINCE 
and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  go  toward  middle  recess  and  seat  them 
selves] 

BEAU.     Heaven  forbid! 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.     He  really  has  no  taste. 

PRINCE.  He  showed  that  when  he  chose  Miss  Vincent  for 
his  marked  attention. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  And  do  you  think  so,  too?  Why,  I 
know  Miss  Vincent  is  an  insignificant  little  thing,  whose  name 
has  never  been  associated  with  any  gentleman  of  quality,  but, 
though  without  mind  or  manners,  she  has  money,  sir.  She 
dresses  like  a  guy,  but  her  clothes,  like  the  clouds,  have  silver 
lining. 

MARIANA  [with  a  hasty  look  out  of  the  curtain].  I  wish 
I  could  escape  by  the  window. 

BEAU.  I've  half  a  mind  to  crawl  out  of  the  window,  but 
I  might  be  observed.  There's  no  resource  but  to  try  to  go 
asleep. 

PRINCE.     You  are  a  flatterer  and  a  coquette. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.     No ;  only  a  woman — and  under  a  spell. 

PRINCE.     Damme,  that  sounds  very  fine.     I  should  like — 


52  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.    Well? 

PRINCE.  I  should  like  to  be  one  of  those  little  words  that 
kiss  your  lips  and  die. 

BEAU.    One  of  my  pet  speeches — number  five. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Beware,  sir,  let  me  warn  you — remem 
ber,  I  have  been  married  once  already. 

PRINCE.  'Fore  Gad,  madam,  I  wish  that  you  would  marry 
twice. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Never!  Now!  To  be  sure,  I  once 
thought  there  was  something  like  love  engendered  in  me  by 
Mr.  Brummell,  but  now  I  know  it  was  not  real  love;  it  was 
only  a  shadow. 

PRINCE.  Why  do  you  think  that?  [At  this  moment  VIN 
CENT  enters  from  the  center  door.  All  the  curtains  of  the 
different  windows  are  drawn  so  he  can  see  no  one.] 

VINCENT.  I  cannot  keep  away  any  longer;  she's  been  sensi 
ble  and  accepted  him,  or  they'd  have  been  gone  long  before  this. 
[MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  moves  the  curtain  a  little,  with  a  slight 
exclamation]  There  they  are  in  the  recess  behind  the  curtain. 
Oh,  he's  clever — Mr.  Brummell — very  clever. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  I  tremble  to  acknowledge,  even  to  my 
self,  the  dictates  of  my  own  heart.  Ah,  sir,  I  conceive  you 
know  only  too  well  who  reigns  there  now. 

VINCENT  [who  apparently  cannot  hear].  I  should  just  like 
to  hear  a  word  to  see  how  the  great  Mr.  Brummell  makes 
love.  I  wonder  would  it  be  wrong  now  to  listen  a  bit?  Why 
should  it  be — am  I  not  her  father?  It's  my  duty,  and  I  will. 
[Comes  further  down  and  listens.] 

PRINCE.     Siren!     You  make  me  drunk  with  joy! 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  No;  let  me  recover  myself.  You  have 
bewitched  me,  sir.  I  must  resist  your  fascinations,  and  not 
forget  the  difference  in  our  rank.  Fashion  would  condemn  me. 

PRINCE.     Damn  Fashion! 

VINCENT.  Oh!  Mr.  Brummell  a-damning  Fashion.  How 
he  loves  her!  How  he  loves  her! 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Ah!  sir,  we  women  are  so  frail,  so 
easily  beguiled! 

PRINCE  [falling  on  his  knees}.  By  Heaven,  I  will  not  lose 
you! 

VINCENT  [joyfully].     He's  on  his  knees!    He's  on  his  knees! 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  53 

PRINCE.  Superb!  sumptuous!  beautiful  woman!  [Kisses 
her  hand.] 

VINCENT.     He's  kissing  her!     He's  kissing  her! 

PRINCE.     I  swear  I  will  marry  you! 

VINCENT  [who  can  restrain  himself  no  longer,  rushes  for 
ward  and  draws  curtain  aside].  And  so  you  shall!  Bless  you, 
my — [Sees  the  PRINCE  and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Falls  back] 
Oh,  Lord!  The  Prince!  [All  guests  enter  at  center  door] 

PRINCE  [rising,  indignantly].  What  do  you  mean,  sir? 
Confound  your  damned  impudence!  Will  someone  show  this 
gentleman — 

BEAU  [who  has  come  slowly  down].  Oh,  take  his  bless 
ing;  it  won't  hurt  you. 

PRINCE.     Damn  his  blessing! 

BEAU.  Be  composed,  my  dear  Wales,  or  you'll  make  a  fool 
of  yourself. 

PRINCE  [too  exasperated  to  take  from  BEAU  what  he  usu 
ally  thinks  all  right].  Oh,  I  am  tired  of  your  deuced  im 
pertinence,  too,  Beau.  Step  aside,  step  aside! 

BEAU  [slowly  handing  his  snuff-box  to  the  PRINCE].  My 
dear  Wales,  first  you  lose  your  equilibrium,  and  now  you  lose 
your  temper.  Take  a  little  snuff. 

PRINCE.  Damn  your  snuff!  [Knock?  snuff-box  out  of 
BEAU'S  hand] 

BEAU  [puts  up  his  glass  and  looks  quietly  at  him].  Very 
bad  manners,  very  bad.  I  shall  have  to  order  my  carriage. 
Wales,  will  you  ring  the  bell  ?  [Everybody  is  aghast  at  BEAU'S 
daring.  The  PRINCE  stands  petrified.  BEAU  holds  out  his 
hand  to  MARIANA,  who  has  been  standing  in  the  recess,  half 
fainting.  She  comes  forward,  bows  low  to  the  PRINCE,  and 
backs  to  the  door,  followed  by  her  father,  who  is  pitifully  de 
jected.  As  BEAU,  with  a  last  look  at  the  PRINCE  through  his 
glass,  turns  and  walks  toward  the  door, 


[THE  CURTAIN  FALLS.] 


THE  THIRD  ACT 

The  Mall,  St.  James  Park,  the  great  promenade  where,  every 
day,  all  London  walks.  There  are  benches  on  each  side 
of  the  stage  under  the  trees.  At  the  back,  ladies  and 
gentlemen  can  be  seen  walking. 

MORTIMER  come s  on  from  right-hand  side,  and  walks  up  and 
down  impatiently.  After  a  little,  KATHLEEN  appears  in 
a  great  hurry. 

KATHLEEN.    Oh!    You're  there,  are  you? 

MORTIMER  {indignantly}.  Am  I  here?  You're  half  an 
hour  late. 

KATHLEEN  [airily].  Well,  what  do  you  expect?  Aren't  I 
a  woman?  Say,  what's  the  matter  with  your  face?  You  have 
an  awful  gloomy  expression  of  countenance. 

MORTIMER  [laughing].  You  little  minx.  Well,  how  goes 
it? 

KATHLEEN  [crossing  to  bench  and  sitting  down}.  Why, 
bad.  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  keep  one  lie  from  spoiling  the 
other.  Say,  is  all  this  true  about  Mr.  Brummell  and  the 
Prince? 

MORTIMER.    Yes.    We've  quarreled. 

KATHLEEN.     And  did  the  Prince  cut  ye's? 

MORTIMER.  No;  we  cut  the  Prince,  and  on  account  of  you 
Vincents,  too.  The  Prince  is  deuced  put  out  with  Mr.  Brum 
mell,  [crosses  to  bench  and  sits]  so  Bendon  told  me.  It's  all 
abroad,  and  I  left  a  swarm  of  creditors  at  the  house,  and, 
worse  still,  there  are  two  bailiffs  after  him.  [KATHLEEN  gives 
an  exclamation  of  horror.]  We  must  hurry  on  this  marriage, 
Kathleen,  or  you  and  I'll  be  ruined.  We  must  take  pains  to 
keep  Mr.  Brummell  and  his  nephew  apart,  for  he's  that  partial 
to  him  there's  no  telling  what  he  mightn't  do  if  he  was  to 
discover  Miss  Mariana  and  Mr.  Reginald  were  lovers. 

KATHLEEN.  And  we  must  see  to  it  that  Miss  Mariana 
and  Mr.  Reginald  don't  meet,  else  he'd  explain  how  he'd  never 

54 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  55 

received  any  of  her  letters.  I  kept  them  all  carefully,  for  I 
thought  it  might  comfort  him  to  read  'em  after  she  was  mar 
ried  to  Mr.  Brummell.  But  I  must  be  off.  [Rises.]  Good 
morning,  me  Lud.  [Makes  very  deep  curtsy.] 

MORTIMER  [bowing  very  low].  Till  this  evening,  me 
Lady. 

KATHLEEN.  Till  this  evening.  [Turns  to  go  out,  and 
meets  REGINALD  face  to  face.] 

REGINALD.  Ah!  Kathleen,  where  have  you  been  this  last 
week? 

KATHLEEN  [is  very  much  perturbed;  MORTIMER  has  re 
treated  to  the  back  of  the  Mail,  and  has  disappeared].  Here, 
sir,  here. 

REGINALD.     Will  your  mistress  be  in  the  Park  this  morning? 

KATHLEEN.     No,  sir;  she  left  town  to-day,  sir. 

REGINALD  [a  little  wistfully].  Was  she — in  good  spirits, 
Kathleen? 

KATHLEEN.     Oh,  beautiful,  sir!     She  skipt  with  joy. 

REGINALD  [gives  KATHLEEN  money,  and  then  slowly  walks 
away].  I  cannot  understand  it.  I  am  sure  there  is  some 
mistake. 

KATHLEEN  [looking  at  the  coin  disdainfully].  That's 
mighty  small  pay  for  a  mighty  big  lie.  Bad  cess  to  him !  [She 
walks  off  at  the  right  with  a  toss  of  her  head.  As  she  disap 
pears,  REGINALD  comes  down  as  though  to  call  her  back,  but 
she  has  gone,  and  he  turns  to  see  MORTIMER.] 

REGINALD.     Ah,  Mortimer,  is  Mr.  Brummell  well  ? 

MORTIMER  [very  respectfully,  hat  in  hand].  No,  sir.  Not 
at  all,  sir.  He  can  see  no  one,  sir. 

REGINALD.     But  he  will  see  me? 

MORTIMER.  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  he  especially  mentioned 
your  name,  sir;  he  could  not  even  see  you. 

REGINALD.     Will  he  not  be  in  the  Mall  this  morning? 

MORTIMER.     No,  oh  no,  sir. 

REGINALD.  Well,  tell  him  I  will  visit  him  to-morrow. 
[REGINALD  goes  off  down  path  to  the  right.] 

MORTIMER.  That  was  a  tight  squeeze.  I  expect  him  here 
any  moment.  I  must  see  him  and  warn  him  of  the  bailiffs, 
if  he  only  arrives  before  they  do.  [MORTIMER  goes  off  hur 
riedly  by  a  path  to  the  left.  BEAU  enters  from  the  lower  left- 
hand  side,  and  walks  slowly  to  the  center^  followed  by  MOR- 


56  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

TIMER.  MORTIMER  seems  quite  out  of  breath.  BEAU  is 
dressed  in  dark  green  silk  knee-breeches,  green  coat,  black  silk 
stockings,  buckled  shoes,  frilled  shirt  and  neckcloth;  wears  two 
fobs,  carries  cane  with  eye-glass  in  the  top;  has  gray  high  hat 
of  the  period,  yellow  waistcoat,  yellow  gloves,  large  red 
boutonniere.] 

MORTIMER.  Mr.  Brummell,  sir!  [BEAU  starts,  turns,  lifts 
cane  slowly,  looks  at  MORTIMER  through  glass  on  top,  then 
turns  away  and  continues  his  walk.] 

MORTIMER  [very  deferentially,  but  firmly].  Mr.  Brum 
mell,  sir! 

BEAU  [without  turning].     I  think  there  is  some  mistake. 

MORTIMER.     Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I  must  speak  to  you. 

BEAU.  You  forget,  Mortimer,  servants  in  the  street  are 
like  children  at  the  table, — they  may  be  seen,  but  must  not  be 
heard. 

MORTIMER.     I  have  not  forgotten,  sir,  but  this  is  serious. 

BEAU.  Serious!  then  it  is  sure  to  be  unpleasant — wait  till 
I  take  some  snuff.  [Takes  snuff  very  quietly,  and  with  much 
ceremony  replaces  box;  then  nods  to  MORTIMER  and  listens.] 

MORTIMER.  Sir,  your  quarrel  with  the  Prince  is  already 
common  talk. 

BEAU  [brushing-  a  little  snuff  off  his  ruffles].  Ah,  poor 
Wales! 

MORTIMER.  There  was  a  crowd  of  creditors  at  your  door 
when  I  left,  sir. 

BEAU.     That  is  neither  new  nor  serious. 

MORTIMER.     But  they  were  angry  and  would  not  go  away. 

BEAU.     Why  did  you  not  send  them  off? 

MORTIMER.  Sir,  we've  been  sending  them  off  for  the  past 
two  years,  and  now — they  won't  be  sent.  Besides,  sir,  there 
are  two  bailiffs  who  swore  they'd  have  you  if  they  had  to  take 
you  in  the  Mall. 

BEAU.    Impossible! 

MORTIMER.     I  fear  not,  sir;  one  is  from  Mr.  Abrahams. 

BEAU.  Here?  In  the  Mall?  I  would  rather  perish! 
There  is  no  help  for  it.  [To  himself.]  I  must  make  a  shield 
of  my  marriage.  I  blush  to  do  it,  for  it  would  seem  to  leave 
a  blot  upon  my  love  for  Mariana,  but  a  blot  upon  that  love 
is  better  than  a  blot  upon  the  name  of  Brummell,  the  name 
she  is  to  wear.  [Aloud  to  MORTIMER.]  Mortimer! 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  57 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  You  must  hasten  back  and  meet  them,  these  dogs  of 
bailiffs;  you  must  prevent  them  by  telling  them  of  my  mar 
riage  to  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Oliver  Vincent.  That  prospect 
should  satisfy  them.  Promise  them  all  they  demand — and 
added  interest.  [BEAU  starts  to  go  off  at  the  right-hand  side; 
MORTIMER  also  moves  off  to  the  left]  Promise  them  every 
thing.  [MORTIMER  stops  and  bows  respectfully,  then  starts 
again.  BEAU  moves  on  a  few  paces,  then  stops  again.]  Prom 
ise  them  anything!  [MORTIMER  again  stops  and  bows.  BEAU 
moves  on  again,  and  MORTIMER  also  starts  again  to  go.  BEAU 
stops  suddenly] 

BEAU.  And,  Mortimer!  [MORTIMER  stops,  and  comes 
back  a  few  steps]  You  must  not  go  unrewarded  [MORTIMER 
looks  pleased  and  expectant]}  promise  yourself  something! 
[BEAU  walks  slowly  off  at  the  right-hand  side  and  MORTIMER, 
with  low  bow,  replaces  his  hat,  and  goes  quickly  off  at  the  left 
side] 

MORTIMER  [as  he  exits].  Yes,  sir!  [VINCENT  and  MARI 
ANA  enter  from  the  upper  left-hand  entrance.  MARIANA  is 
dressed  simply  but  prettily  in  a  light  flowered  silk  gown  and 
poke  bonnet,  with  a  parasol] 

VINCENT.  We'll  be  sure  to  meet  him  here  somewhere. 
You  must  do  it  all,  Mariana.  He  was  just  as  haughty  with 
me  last  night  after  we  left  Carlton  House  as  he  always  was. 
You  wouldn't  have  thought  he  had  just  sacrificed  himself  for 
me. 

MARIANA.     Sacrificed  himself  for  you,  papa? 

VINCENT.  Isn't  it  sacrificing  himself  for  him  to  give  up 
his  position  in  the  world?  And  isn't  that  what  he  has  done 
to  resent  your  father's  insult? 

^  MARIANA    \_trying  to   lighten  the  seriousness  of  the  situa 
tion].     I  fancied  he  did  it  partly  on  my  account,  papa. 

VINCENT.  Of  course,  you  little  rogue,  it  was  for  us  both, 
but  it's  you  alone  who  can  repay  him.  He  hasn't  a  penny,  and 
this  rupture  with  the  Prince  has  brought  down  all  his  creditors 
upon  him.  With  the  money  your  dowry  will  bring  him 
[MARIANA  turns  her  head  away,  biting  her  lip],  he  can  pay 
off  his  creditors  and  defy  the  Prince,  Without  it  he  can  do 
neither,  and  is  utterly  ruined. 

MARIANA.     I  realize,  father,  that  it  is  through  us  this  sud- 


58  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

den  calamity  has  come  upon  Mr.  Brummell.  It  was  you,  papa, 
who  were  to  blame.  Why  did  you  bring  down  the  curtain 
before  the  comedy  was  over? 

VINCENT  [a  little  irritably].  Come,  come,  Mariana,  you 
have  too  teasing  a  temper. 

MARIANA  [seriously  enough  now].  Ah,  my  dear  father,  I 
only  want  to  help  you  by  making  light  of  the  matter.  Come 
[taking  his  arm  and  crossing  slowly  toward  the  right],  let  us 
find  Mr.  Brummell.  I  am  not  blind  to  the  fact  that  it  was 
by  protecting  you  and  me  he  exposed  himself  to  insult.  Well, 
he  shall  not  suffer  for  it.  Father,  I  promise  you  that  I  will 
accept  his  hand! 

VINCENT.  And  I  feel  sure  that  it  will  mean  happiness  for 
you  in  the  end.  Wait  here  [seats  MARIANA  on  bench  at 
right]  a  moment,  and  I  will  return  with  Mr.  Brummell. 
[VINCENT  exits  at  the  upper  right-hand  path.] 

MARIANA.  Yes,  yes.  I  must  hesitate  no  longer.  I  must 
think  now  only  of  my  father,  and  not  remember  Reginald,  who 
has  neglected  me.  Gratitude  and  sympathy  shall  take  the 
place  of  love  in  my  heart.  [MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  enters  from 
right-hand  entrance,  dressed  very  exquisitely  in  white, — large 
white  hat;  she  carries  a  fan.] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Ah,  Miss  Vincent!  Is  Mr.  Brummell 
with  you?  [Makes  a  very  slight  curtsy.] 

MARIANA  [rising  and  curtsying].     No;  my  father. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  And  you  have  him  to  thank  for  the 
scene  last  evening.  It  is  he  Mr.  Brummell  has  to  thank  for 
the  Prince's  displeasure. 

MARIANA  [anxiously].  Madam,  and  is  the  Prince  still 
angry  ? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [with  great  relish].  He  is  furious,  and 
swears  he  will  never  forgive  him.  There  is,  I  think,  only  one 
person  who  could  influence  him  in  Mr.  Brummell's  behalf, 
and  that  person — is — myself!  [Crosses  triumphantly  in  front 
of  MARIANA,  with  a  sweep  of  her  fan  on  the  last  word.] 

MARIANA  [eagerly  going  a  little  toward  her].  Then,  surely, 
you  who  have  been  such  a  good  friend  of  Mr.  Brummell  will 
use  your  influence  in  his  behalf.  Indeed,  if  I  am  not  wrong, 
it  was  through  Mr.  Brummell  that  you  met  the  Prince.  Your 
smoothing  this  quarrel,  then,  will  be  but  a  fair  return  to 
him. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  59 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  You  forget  I  am  a  woman  of  fashion. 
We  take  all  we  can  get,  but  we  never  give  anything.  No,  only 
on  one  condition  shall  I  persuade  the  Prince  to  hold  Mr. 
Brummell  again  in  favor. 

MARIANA  [with  quiet  scorn}.  Ah,  I  see,  a  condition.  Then 
you  women  of  the  world  condescend  to  sell,  if  you  will  not 
give. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [angrily].  You  would  do  better  not  to 
ruffle  me.  My  condition  is  this:  If  you  will  promise  to  relin 
quish  Mr.  Brummell,  I  will  make  the  Prince  promise  not  to 
cut  him,  as  he  has  sworn  to  do  publicly  to-day.  [Looks  tri 
umphantly  at  MARIANA,  then  turns  away  as  though  to  give 
her  time  to  consider.] 

MARIANA.  I  would  I  could  accept  this  proposition,  but  I 
cannot,  I  cannot!  'Twould  be  the  greatest  injustice  to  Mr. 
Brummell.  I  must  not  forget  that  he  did  not  hesitate  to 
sacrifice  himself  for  me  and  my  father.  I  spoke  to  her  of  mak 
ing  him  a  return.  Let  me  not  shrink  then  from  making  as  just 
a  one  myself.  [Then  speaking  to  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN,  who  has 
turned  toward  MARIANA.]  What  right  have  you  to  ask 
anyone  to  give  him  up? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  He  sought  my  favors  before  you  enticed 
him  from  me. 

MARIANA  [very  quietly].     I  do  not  believe  that. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [angrily].  You  are  uncommonly  insolent. 
[Then  changing  her  tone  to  one  of  condescension.]  Well, 
even  if  it  were  not  so,  I  should  still  have  the  right  to  ask  you. 
You  seem  to  forget  the  difference  in  our  position.  [She  sweeps 
past  MARIANA  with  a  grand  air  toward  the  right.  At  this 
moment  BEAU  enters  from  the  right-hand  side;  he  has  over 
heard  the  last  speech.  He  crosses  to  the  center,  bowing  to 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  as  he  passes  her,  and  with  a  very  low  bow 
to  MARIANA  says:] 

BEAU.  It  is  you,  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn,  who  forget.  It  is  greatly 
to  the  credit  of  Miss  Vincent  if  she  can  overlook  a  difference 
your  present  conduct  makes  so  very  marked. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [with  a  very  low  curtsy].  I  will  repeat 
to  you  what  I  have  just  said  to  Miss  Vincent. 

BEAU   [airily].     Pray  do  not  fatigue  yourself,  madam. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  You  will  learn  that  I  know  how  to 
remain  a  friend  when  once  I  become  one.  I  offered  Miss 


6o  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

Vincent  the  chance  of  regaining  for  you  the  Prince's  friend 
ship. 

BEAU.     And  your  price? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [in  a  low  tone}.     Yourself. 

BEAU  [to  MARIANA].  And  you,  you  refused?  [MARI 
ANA  bow s  her  head.}  It  would  have  been  most  unflattering, 
madam,  had  Miss  Vincent  disposed  of  me  so  cheaply. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [who  is  now  enraged  almost  beyond  the 
bounds  of  endurance}.  Are  you  mad?  Do  you  know  to 
whom  you  are  speaking?  You  are  somewhat  rash,  sir.  Dis 
card  me,  and  the  Prince  shall  know  all. 

BEAU.  He  knows  so  very  little  at  present,  the  knowledge 
of  anything  would  be  largely  to  his  advantage.  And  yet — I 
cannot  imagine  you  will  tell  him — all. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Your  raillery  is  ill  planned.  A  woman 
scorned — 

BEAU.  Pray  spare  us,  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn;  you  were  never 
intended  for  tragedy — it  does  not  become  you — and  it  pro 
duces  [pause} — wrinkles. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [has  now  recovered  her  composure}.  Mr. 
Brummell,  I  bid  you  adieu — you  have  taught  me  how  to  smile 
even  when — tush — I  am  a  woman  of  fashion!  [Crosses  to 
left,  passing  MARIANA.]  Miss  Vincent,  I  wish  you  joy. 
[With  an  exaggerated  deep  curtsy.  MARIANA  curtsies.  Looks 
off  up  the  left  path,  and  calls:}  Manly — Lord  Manly. 
[MANLY  comes  on,  raises  hat,  bows.}  Lord  Manly — your 
arm — your  arm.  [They  go  off  arm  in  arm.} 

MARIANA  [sinking  down  on  bench}.  Your  regard  and  pro 
tection  leave  me  too  much  in  your  debt. 

BEAU.  Pray  let  that  debt  weigh  no  more  heavily  on  you 
than  do  my  debts  on  me.  One  smile  of  yours  had  overpaid  me. 

MARIANA.  If  your  creditors  were  as  easily  satisfied  as  you 
are,  sir,  I  should  be  prodigal  of  my  smiles. 

BEAU  [crossing  to  MARIANA'S  side}.  Ah,  Mariana,  if  your 
smiles  were  the  coinage,  egad,  I  think  I  should  turn  miser. 

MARIANA.     You  are  not  practical,  sir.     I  must  make  you  so. 

BEAU.  I  am  your  slave,  and  the  chains  I  wear  are  no  bur 
den.  May  I  indeed  hope  that  you  will  accept  my  humble 
service?  That  you  will  be  my  wife?  [Stands  hat  in  hand.} 

MARIANA.  Yes,  Mr.  Brummell,  I  honor  and  respect  you. 
[Gives  her  hand  to  BEAU.]  I  will  be  your  wife. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  61 

BEAU  [kissing  her  hand].  And  may  I  hope  you  will  learn 
to  love  me  a  little? 

MARIANA.  I  do  indeed  hope  so.  \_Aside.~\  Or  make  my 
self  forget. 

BEAU  [putting  on  his  hat  with  a  buoyant  gesture}.  Come, 
Mariana  [MARIANA  rises'],  honor  my  arm — and  we  will  tell 
the  whole  world  of  our — of  my  happiness.  [They  go  off  at 
left-hand  path.  VINCENT  enters  from  the  right.'} 

VINCENT.  I  can't  find  him  anywhere.  I'm  afraid  he's 
hiding,  poor  fellow,  from  those  bailiffs,  and  doesn't  dare  show 
his  face  lest  he  be  taken.  Where's  Mariana?  Has  she  changed 
her  mind  and  gone?  No,  she  gave  her  promise  she'd  accept 
him,  and  I  can  trust  to  her  word.  I'll  search  for  her  now,  and 
perhaps,  by  so  doing,  I  may  find  him.  [VINCENT  goes  out 
by  upper  path,  left-hand  side.  Two  BAILIFFS  enter  from 
upper  right-hand  path.  They  are  villainous-looking  creatures; 
one  limps — the  other  has  a  patch  over  one  eye,  and  both  have 
very  red  noses;  they  are  dressed  in  ragged  clothes.} 

FIRST  BAILIFF.  Our  gentleman's  so  fine  we  mustn't 
bother  our  eyes  with  winking,  or  he'll  slip  through  our  fin 
gers. 

SECOND  BAILIFF.  Not  if  I  know  it.  This  is  the  most 
fashionable  affair  of  my  life.  Look  here — who's  this?  [He 
points  to  the  left-hand  path.  They  both  quickly  withdraw* 
behind  a  tree.  BEAU  enters  from  the  left.} 

BEAU.  I'll  leave  her  to  inform  her  father.  I  must  find 
Mortimer;  he  should  have  returned  by  now.  What  if  he 
should  not  have  met  those  bailiffs — if  they  should  still  be  at 
large.  Zounds!  [He  sits  on  bench  at  right.} 

FIRST  BAILIFF  [in  a  low  tone}.     That's  him! 

SECOND  BAILIFF.  Lud — ain't  he  scrumptious!  We  ought 
to  have  a  pair  of  silver  sugar-tongs  to  take  him  with.  [They 
come  down,  one  behind  the  other.} 

FIRST  BAILIFF.     Mr.  Brummell,  sir! 

BEAU   [looking  up}.     The  devil! 

FIRST  BAILIFF.     No,  sir,  the  bailiff. 

BEAU.  What  is  the  difference?  [The  BAILIFFS  look  at 
one  another  in  amazement.} 

FIRST  BAILIFF.     We've  been  looking  for  you,  sir. 

BEAU.  I  am  so  sorry  you  have  put  yourself  to  that  trouble, 
and  you  must  not  speak  to  me  here.  Do  you  realize  what  you 


62  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

are  doing?     Suppose  some  one  were  to  observe  you.     My  valet 
will  attend  to  you. 

FIRST  BAILIFF.  Oh,  we'll  take  care  of  your  valet  later; 
it's  you  that  we've  got  a  couple  of  papers  for  this  morning. 
I  represent  your  landlord,  sir!  [BEAU  lifts  his  cane  with  great 
deliberation,  and  looks  at  him  through  the  glass.] 

BEAU.     Are  you  the  best  he  can  do? 

FIRST  BAILIFF.  You  have  lived  in  his  house  three  years, 
and  he  considers  it's  time  as  how  you  paid  a  bit  of  rent. 

BEAU  [as  though  to  himself].  The  ungrateful  wretch! 
The  very  fact  of  my  having  resided  in  his  house  should  be 
more  than  sufficient  remuneration. 

SECOND  BAILIFF  [comes  up  in  front  of  BEAU,  while  FIRST 
BAILIFF  retires  a  little,  shaking  his  head  as  though  completely 
puzzled].  And  I  am  here  for  Mr.  Abrahams  and  several 
other  gentlemen. 

BEAU.  You  remind  me  of  the  person  in  the  theatre  whom 
they  call  the  super,  who  represents  the  enemy  on  the  march 
or  the  company  in  the  ballroom.  We  will  dispense  with  your 
company,  sir. 

FIRST  BAILIFF  [coming  up  again].  That  won't  do,  Mr. 
Brummell.  You  must  pay,  or  come  along  with  us.  [Makes 
vague  gesture  of  thumb  over  shoulder.] 

SECOND  BAILIFF  [making  same  gesture  as  he  withdraws 
again].  Yes,  pay,  or  come  along  with  us. 

BEAU.  You  men  must  be  mad;  the  Prince  will  be  here 
presently,  and  I  will  speak  to  him.  [Rises.] 

FIRST  BAILIFF  [obsequiously].  Oh,  if  His  Royal  Highness 
will  help  you,  sir,  of  course  we  won't  press  matters. 

BEAU.  See  that  you  do  not.  And  now  [looking  at  them 
through  his  glass],  trot  away,  trot  away,  and  walk  in  Fleet 
Street;  the  Mall  is  really  no  place  for  you.  [He  turns,  lifts 
his  boutonniere  so  he  can  inhale  the  perfume  of  the  flowers, 
and  then  walks  away  with  great  deliberation.  They  stand 
staring  after  him  for  an  instant,  stupefied.] 

FIRST  BAILIFF.  We'll  keep  our  eye  on  our  gentleman,  just 
the  same.  These  little  rumors  about  the  Prince  and  him  might 
be  true  after  "all,  and  if  they  are,  why,  we  won't  walk  in  Fleet 
Street  alone.  [He  pulls  a  black  bottle  out  of  his  pocket,  takes 
a  drink,  and  then  hands  it  to  the  SECOND  BAILIFF,  who  also 
takes  a  drink;  then  they  go  off  in  the  same  direction  BEAU 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  63 

went.  The  DUCHESS,  LADY  FARTHINGALE,  LORD  MANLY 
and  SHERIDAN  come  on  from  the  left-hand  path.  LORD 
MANLY  and  LADY  FARTHINGALE  cross  to  the  right-hand  bench. 
LADY  FARTHINGALE  sits,  MANLY  stands  by  her  side.  Three 
ladies  and  gentlemen  come  on  at  the  back  and  stand  there, 
apparently  chatting  or  listening  to  the  DUCHESS.] 

DUCHESS.  Where  can  Beau  have  disappeared  to?  It's 
near  time  for  the  Prince  to  be  out,  and  I  wouldn't  miss  ob 
serving  the  meeting  for  worlds.  Pray,  Sherry,  give  us  your 
opinion — will  he  cut  him  or  not?  [The  DUCHESS  has  been 
flying  around,  looking  for  BEAU  in  every  direction.] 

SHERIDAN.  Really,  Duchess,  I  cannot  say  what  the  Prince 
will  do.  He's  too  great  a  fool  for  me  to  put  myself  in  his 
place. 

MANLY.  Damme,  of  course  he'll  cut  him,  and,  moreover, 
Beau  deserves  it. 

SHERIDAN  [decidedly"].  Then,  for  my  part,  I  say,  let's  move 
on. 

DUCHESS  [equally  decided].  We'll  do  no  such  thing. 
We  must  see  for  ourselves,  so  that  we  can  trust  our  own  ears 
and  know  how  to  treat  Mr.  Brummell  accordingly.  Besides, 
if  we  observe  it,  we  can  inform  others  of  the  affair  correctly, 
and  there  will  be  some  merit  in  that.  [SHERIDAN  moves 
away  to  the  right,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders] 

LADY  FARTHINGALE.  Mr.  Brummell  will  never  be  able 
to  stand  it  if  he's  injured.  I  should  not  wonder  now  if  he 
fainted! 

DUCHESS.  Dear  me,  do  you  think  so?  [Face  falls  as 
though  disappointed]  I  don't  know,  I'm  afraid  not. 

SHERIDAN  [impatiently].  He's  more  likely  to  resent  any 
insult,  I'm  convinced. 

DUCHESS  [most  excited,  rushes  to  LADY  FARTHINGALE]. 
What!  A  duel!  Oh,  Lud,  Lady  Farthingale,  only  think — 
a  duel!  Deuce  take  it,  where  can  Beau  be?  I'm  afraid  the 
Prince  will  arrive  first. 

SHERIDAN  [sarcastically].  My  dear  Duchess,  prithee  be 
calm;  you  are  too  great  an  enthusiast. 

DUCHESS  [looking  off  at  the  right].  Here  comes  Mr. 
Brummell,  I  vow.  Do  you  notice  anything  different  in  his 
manner  of  walking? 

SHERIDAN   [monocle  in  eye,  looks  off  in  direction  BEAU  is 


64  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

supposed  to  be].  He  seems  to  have  the  same  number  of  legs 
as  formerly.  [He  crosses  over  to  the  left.] 

DUCHESS.  Oh,  you  may  rail  at  me,  Sherry,  but  it's  no 
laughing  matter  for  Mr.  Brummell,  I  can  tell  you. 

LADY  FARTHINGALE  [rising  so  she  can  see  better].  He's 
coming — he's  coming! 

DUCHESS.  Lud,  we  must  not  expose  ourselves!  We  must 
at  least  feign  utter  ignorance  of  the  affair.  [BEAU  enters.] 
Ah,  Beau!  [The  ladies  curtsy,  the  men  raise  their  hats.] 

BEAU.  Still  loitering,  Duchess?  I  was  so  afraid  you  would 
have  returned  home.  [He  joins  SHERIDAN  on  the  other  side.] 

DUCHESS  [aside  to  LADY  FARTHINGALE].  You  hear?  A 
hint  for  us  to  go,  but  he'll  not  hoodwink  his  Duchess.  [To 
BEAU.]  We  were  just  going,  but  we'll  rest  a  moment  for 
another  chat  with  you. 

BEAU.  Too  good  of  you,  Duchess.  Are  you  not  afraid 
to  risk  your — what's  that  called,  Sherry?  {Touching  his 
cheek.] 

SHERIDAN   [much  embarrassed].     Complexion. 

BEAU.  Yes,  your  complexion  in  the  sun.  [Chats  with 
SHERIDAN.  DUCHESS,  very  angry,  does  not  know  what  to 
say  until  LADY  FARTHINGALE'S  speech  gives  her  a  chance  to 
show  her  spitefulness.] 

LADY  FARTHINGALE.     Here  comes  His  Royal  Highness! 

DUCHESS  [looking  off  at  the  right].  The  Prince!  Is  he 
truly?  I  didn't  expect  him  this  morning.  Beau,  the  Prince 
is  coming. 

BEAU  [indifferently].  Is  he  really?  Where's  the  music? 
In  the  play  the  Prince  always  comes  on  with  music.  Let's  be 
going,  Sherry,  there's  no  music.  [Takes  SHERIDAN'S  arm,  and 
they  move  off  to  the  left.] 

DUCHESS  [meaningly].  What,  Beau,  you  wouldn't  leave 
before  His  Royal  Highness  comes? 

BEAU  [seeing  there  is  no  escape,  meets  his  fate  gallantly]. 
By  my  manners,  no!  Sherry,  let  us  meet  him.  [They  turn 
and  start  to  the  right,  as  the  PRINCE  enters  with  MRS.  ST. 
AUBYN  on  his  arm.  The  DUCHESS  has  retreated  back  to 
where  LADY  FARTHINGALE  is  standing.] 

DUCHESS.  The  deuce,  did  you  hear  that,  Lady  Farthingale? 
[BEAU  and  SHERIDAN  reach  the  center  and  stop.  The  PRINCE 
and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  pass  directly  by  BEAU,  although  he 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  65 

stands,  hat  in  hand,  and  the  PRINCE  addresses  SHERIDAN. 
BEAU  replaces  hat  and  listens  with  an  amused  expression. ~\ 

PRINCE.  Sup  with  me  to-night,  Sherry,  after  the  play. 
Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  and  the  Duchess  will  be  there  with  us,  and, 
egad,  we'll  make  a  night  of  it.  [SHERIDAN  can  only  bow 
acquiescence,  and  the  PRINCE  and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  move  on 
a  little  way,  BEAU,  lifting  his  glass,  looks  after  them  and 
says  to  SHERIDAN:] 

BEAU.  Sherry,  who's  your  fat  friend?  [SHERIDAN  is 
divided  between  delight  and  amazement  at  his  daring,  and 
consternation  at  thought  of  the  consequences,  and  whispers  in 
BEAU'S  ear.] 

PRINCE  [who  has  stopped  short].  Well — damn  his  impu 
dence  ! 

BEAU  [affects  not  to  hear  or  understand  SHERIDAN],  I  beg 
your  pardon,  who  did  you  say?  I  had  no  idea  he  looked  like 
that.  Is  it  really?  You  don't  say  so?  Dear,  dear,  what  a 
pity!  What  a  pity!  [Takes  SHERIDAN'S  arm  and  they  go 
off  at  the  right,  BEAU  with  his  usual  imperturbable  air,  and 
SHERIDAN  visibly  shaking  and  dejected.  The  PRINCE  and 
MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  are  at  the  left,  the  PRINCE  speechless  with 
rage,  and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  trying  to  say  something  consoling.] 

DUCHESS.     Well,  I've  had  all  my  pains  for  nothing. 

LADY  FARTHINGALE.     But,  Duchess,  did  you  see? 

DUCHESS.  See  what?  There  was  nothing  to  see!  [With 
a  chuckle.]  Lud,  Beau  got  the  best  of  it. 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.  Duchess,  you  look  ill.  Doesn't  the  air 
agree  with  you,  or  is  it  the  daylight? 

DUCHESS  [loftily'}.  I  hope,  my  dear  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn, 
you'll  never  look  worse.  [With  a  deep  curtsy."] 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [with  affected  horror].  Heaven  forbid! 
[The  PRINCE  and  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  exit  at  left.  All  the  peo 
ple  at  back  exit.] 

DUCHESS.  Come,  let's  be  going.  [LORD  MANLY  offers 
one  arm  to  the  DUCHESS,  LADY  FARTHINGALE  takes  his  other 
arm.  They  move  off  toward  the  left.]  Where  can  Beau 
have  disappeared  to?  Of  course,  it's  of  no  interest  to  us,  only 
I  must  say  it  was  uncommonly  ill-natured  of  him  not  to  make 
more  of  a  scene  for  our  sakes,  you  know.  [They  all  go  out. 
BEAU  and  SHERIDAN  enter  from  the  right,  followed  by  the 
Two  BAILIFFS.  SHERIDAN  speaks  as  they  come  on.] 


66  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

SHERIDAN.  Your  marriage,  my  dear  Beau,  will  redeem 
your  misfortune,  and  it  is  the  only  thing  that  will.  [They 
'have  reached  the  center  by  this  time,  and  BEAU  sees  the 
BAILIFFS.  He  stops,  puts  up  his  glass,  looks  at  them,  and 
says :] 

BEAU  [shaking  his  finger  at  SHERIDAN].  Sherry,  Sherry, 
who  are  these  fellows  following  you?  [SHERIDAN  turns  and 
sees  the  BAILIFFS,  and  becomes  much  agitated.] 

BAILIFF.  Mr.  Brummell,  sir!  [BEAU  sees  it's  no  use  to 
try  to  deceive  SHERIDAN.] 

BEAU.  Zounds!  Proceed.  Sherry,  I  will  join  you  in  a 
moment.  Well,  my  good  men!  [SHERIDAN  hurries  off, 
shaking  his  head  sadly] 

BEAU.     You  donkeys,  would  you  ruin  me? 

BAILIFF.  Come,  come,  we've  had  enough  of  your  airs,  now. 
You'd  better  come  along  with  us  quietly.  [Places  finger  on 
BEAU'S  shoulder.] 

BEAU  [moves  away].  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  put  those 
hands  on  me!  Why  don't  you  wear  gloves?  [BAILIFF,  who 
had  retreated  a  step,  comes  closer]  And  don't  come  so  close. 
You  are  too  hasty  and  ill-advised — you  have  no  manners. 
[BAILIFFS  retreat  in  real  confusion  and  astonishment.] 
There's  one  resource,  I  must  tell  them.  [He  takes  out  snuff 
box,  and  takes  snuff  with  great  deliberation,  and  does  not  speak 
until  he  has  returned  box,  brushed  his  lace  ruffles, — then  he 
turns  to  them]  Had  you  met  my  valet  he  would  have  de 
livered  to  you  my  message.  It  was  to  the  effect  that  the  banns 
of  marriage  between  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Oliver  Vincent  and 
myself  are  to  be  published  in  St.  James's  on  Sunday.  As  the 
son-in-law  of  the  merchant  prince,  I  can  not  only  satisfy  your 
master's  demands,  but  handsomely  remember  you  yourselves. 
Now,  trot  away,  trot  away,  anywhere  out  of  my  sight.  [  Turns 
away] 

BAILIFF.  We've  heard  one  of  your  fine  stories  before,  and 
we  don't  go  till  you  prove  what  you  say. 

BEAU.  How  very  annoying!  [Looks  off  at  left  and  sees 
MARIANA.  His  face  lights  up]  Here  comes  Mariana. 
Here  is  the  young  lady  herself.  Withdraw  and  you  shall  have 
your  proof.  [BAILIFFS  look  at  each  other.] 

FIRST  BAILIFF  [<a  little  doubtfully].     Well! 

SECOND  BAILIFF  [still  more  doubtfully].    Well!! 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  67 

FIRST  BAILIFF.  Well,  we'll  see  what  it  is,  eh?  [They 
exit  at  the  back  left.  BEAU  walks  down  to  the  right,  brushes 
his  shoulder  where  the  BAILIFF'S  hand  had  rested,  turns  and 
crosses  toward  left  as  though  to  meet  MARIANA,  and  suddenly 
stops.] 

BEAU.  What!  [Looks  again  as  though  he  thought  him 
self  mistaken.']  Reginald  and  Mariana!  Mariana  and  Reg 
inald!  [Shakes  his  head  as  though  to  dispel  the  thoughts  that 
would  come.  Then  walks  slowly  toward  the  path  at  backt 
leading  off  to  the  left.  MARIANA  enters  hastily f  followed  by 
REGINALD,  both  much  agitated.] 

REGINALD.  I  have  been  wretched  beyond  the  telling — my 
letters  left  unanswered,  not  one  word  from  you  in  fourteen 
days! 

MARIANA.  My  letters  and  appeals  unanswered  is  what  you 
mean,  sir.  I  wrote  you  even  up  to  yesterday,  and  Kathleen 
vowed  that  she  delivered  all  the  notes  till  then. 

REGINALD.  To  whom  did  she  deliver  them?  'Twas  not 
to  me. 

MARIANA  [with  a  cry  of  joy].  What,  you  did  not  receive 
them?  Then  Kathleen  has  played  me  false.  Oh,  Reginald, 
what  I  have  suffered  in  wrongly  thinking  you  untrue  to  me. 

REGINALD.  Such  doubt  of  me  was  cruel,  Mariana,  but 
[lightly]  come,  ask  my  pardon  and  see  how  quickly  I'll  for 
give  you.  [Comes  to  her  and  tries  to  fake  her  hands,  but 
MARIANA  draius  away.] 

MARIANA.     No — no!     I  cannot,  I  cannot. 

REGINALD  [misunderstanding].  Then  see,  I'll  forgive  with 
out  the  asking. 

MARIANA  [still  refusing  to  let  him  take  her  hand].  Reg 
inald,  what  will  you  think?  How  can  I  tell  you?  It  is  too 
late  now. 

REGINALD.     Too  late!     What  do  you  mean? 

MARIANA.  I  have  promised  myself  to  another.  [BEAU  is 
seen  at  back,  head  bowed,  his  attitude  one  of  utter  sadness.] 

REGINALD  [forcibly].  You  must  break  that  promise.  To 
whom  has  it  been  given? 

MARIANA.     To  Mr.  Brummell. 

REGINALD.  Mr.  Brummell!  [In  shocked  surprise.']  Great 
Heavens!  Mariana,  he  is  my  best  friend — my  benefactor. 

MARIANA.     No — no ! 


68  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

REGINALD.  My  mother's  only  brother.  It  is  he  who,  since 
her  death,  has  cared  for  me  most  tenderly,  and,  all  my  life, 
has  shielded  me  from  every  harm. 

MARIANA.  He  is  overwhelmed  now  by  his  difficulties.  His 
creditors  are  like  bloodhounds  on  his  track.  He  has  sacrificed 
himself  for  me  in  defense  of  my  father.  Through  me  alone 
can  he  be  rid  of  his  distresses. 

REGINALD.  And  he  loves  you.  I  know  that,  too,  and  you, 
do  you  love  him? 

MARIANA  [reproachfully].     You  should  not  ask  me  that. 

REGINALD  [taking  her  hands}.  You  are  right!  But  I  can 
not  give  you  up,  nor  can  I  see  my  uncle  ruined;  he  is  the  one 
man  in  the  universe  from  whom  I  would  not  steal  your  love. 
'Tis  you  who  must  decide. 

MARIANA.  And  I  have  done  so.  I  am  his.  [BEAU  comes 
down  to  the  center.  REGINALD  and  MARIANA  draw  back  on 
each  side.] 

BEAU.  No — no,  I  give  you  up;  I  release  you  from  your 
promise.  [The  BAILIFFS  enter  and  stand  at  back,  listen 
ing.'] 

MARIANA  [starting  forward] .     Sir ! 

BEAU.  Take  her,  Reginald!  [He  holds  out  his  hand  to 
MARIANA,  who  is  about  to  give  him  hers,  when  she  stops,  and 
withdraws  her  hand.] 

MARIANA.  No,  I  am  yours.  I  will  not  be  released.  Our 
love  would  not  be  happiness  if  it  entailed  your  ruin.  Reginald 
has  told  me  that  he  owes  to  you  his  life.  My  father  and  myself 
have  greater  cause  for  gratitude  to  you  than  I  can  say.  I  hold 
you  to  your  vows. 

BEAU.     Impossible;  I  now  release  you. 

REGINALD  [sees  the  BAILIFFS].  Great  Heavens,  the  bailiffs! 
You  shall  not  sacrifice  yourself  for  us.  I  join  with  Mariana 
against  myself,  and  say  that  she  is  yours. 

BEAU  [looks  at  him  with  great  affection].  No — no! 
[Brushes  an  imaginary  speck  from  his  sleeve]  I  love  you  both 
too  well  to  come  between  your  young  hearts'  happiness. 

MARIANA  [in  a  last  effort  to  change  him].  And  yet  you 
loved  me!  [BEAU  takes  a  step  toward  her  with  a  look  of  love 
and  reproach] 

BEAU.  Mariana!  No,  [lifting  his  hat  and  turning  away] 
I  must  leave  you. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  69 

REGINALD.  You  shall  not;  we  will  speak  to  Mr.  Vincent 
and  he  will  help  you. 

BEAU  [reprovingly].  I  have  no  claim  whatever  on  Mr. 
Vincent.  [BAILIFFS  standing  at  back  give  a  nod  to  each 
other.}  Take  her,  Reginald;  wear  her  very  near  your  heart 
for  my  sake.  [Hands  MARIANA  to  REGINALD.]  And  now 
I  would  accompany  you  further,  but  I  cannot — not  now. 
[With  a  slight,  almost  imperceptible  turn  toward  the  BAILT 
IFFS.]  I  happen  to  have  a  very  pressing  engagement — with — 
with — His  Majesty!  [BEAU  turns,  after  a  very  ceremonious 
bow  to  MARIANA  to  the  right,  and  moves  off.  The  BAILIFFS 
have  come  down,  and  follow  him  closely;  one  of  them  taps  him 
on  the  shoulder.  BEAU  stops  for  an  instant,  then  takes  out 
snuff-box,  and  takes  snuff,  and  walks  slowly  off  with  the  great 
est  dignity.  MARIANA  hides  her  face  on  REGINALD'S  shoulder 
as 

[THE  CURTAIN  FALLS.] 


THE  FOURTH  ACT 
SCENE  ONE 

'A  lodging  house  at  Calais — a  room  at  the  top  of  the  house. 
The  shabbiest  furniture,  bare  floor,  window  at  the  back 
with  rude  settle  in  it;  the  tops  of  neighboring  houses  can 
be  seen  from  the  window.  A  large  fireplace  with  small 
fire  is  at  the  right,  with  a  door  below,  leading  into  an 
other  room.  A  table  stands  in  the  middle  of  room  with 
a  chair  each  side.  Another  door  at  the  left  leads  into  the 
hall.  BEAU  is  discovered  sitting  in  front  of  fireplace 
with  his  back  to  the  audience.  He  is  dressed  in  a  yellow 
brocaded  dressing-gown,  apparently  the  same  one  worn  in 
Act  I,  but  with  its  glory  gone, — faded  and  worn,  torn  in 
places.  He  wears  old  black  slippers,  with  white  stock 
ings  and  brown  trousers,  "  slit  so  at  the  bottom  and  then 
buttoned  tight."  His  hair  is  a  little  gray,  his  face  thin 
and  worn.  At  the  rise  of  curtain  MORTIMER  enters  from 
hallway.  He,  too,  shows  the  wear  and  tear  of  poverty 
All  his  jauntiness  has  gone;  he  is  shabbily  dressed.  Aftet 
waiting  a  minute  to  see  if  BEAU  will  notice  him,  he  speaks 

MORTIMER.  Not  a  letter,  sir.  No  answer  to  those  we 
sent  over  a  month  ago.  Only  one  to  me  from  Kathleen,  tc 
say  if  I  don't  return  immediately  she  will  take  to  Mr.  Sheri 
dan's  gentleman  for  good,  and  enclosing  me  the  passage-mone] 
over.  [BEAU  turns  a  little  and  looks  at  him,  as  though  to  set- 
if  he  is  going.]  I — I — gave  it  to  the  bootmaker,  whom  I  met 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  with  a  bailiff  as  I  came  in.  [BEAU 
sinks  back  in  his  chair  again,  satisfied  that  MORTIMER  will  nor 
leave  him."] 

BEAU.     If  you  would  not  use  it  for  yourself,  Mortimer,  yov 
might  at  least  have  bought  a  pate  for  dinner  instead ;  we  shoulc 
have  had  something  to  eat,  and  we  could  have  made  the  bailiff 
stop  and  dine  with  us.     Could  you  make  no  further  loans  ' 
[His  voice  is  harsh  and  strained.'] 

70 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  71 

MORTIMER.  No  more,  sir.  I  tried  everywhere.  No  one 
will  trust  us  any  more. 

BEAU.  Mortimer,  what  will  become  of  us?  Think  what 
the  finest  gentleman  of  his  time  is  undergoing.  It's  enough  to 
drive  one  mad. 

MORTIMER.  Have  you  nothing  more  to  sell,  sir?  [BEAU 
rises  and  comes  to  the  table.  He  has  a  snuff-box  in  his  hand — 
a  small  black  one,  in  great  contrast  to  the  jeweled  box  he 
carried  in  the  earlier  scenes.] 

BEAU.  My  last  snuff-box.  You  would  not  have  me  dis 
pose  of  that,  Mortimer — a  paltry  trifle  that  would  bring  noth 
ing.  No,  there  is  nothing,  Mortimer.  Everything  belongs  to 
that  wretched  female  creature  who  dignifies  this  hovel  with  the 
name  of  lodgings.  [Loud  knocking  is  heard  at  the  door,  which 
is  thrown  violently  open,  and  the  LANDLADY  stalks  in.  She 
is  a  very  determined-looking  woman,  short  and  stout,  with  a 
red  face  and  a  pronounced  moustache.  She  is  dressed  in  a 
rather  short  blue  skirt,  heavy  shoes,  blue  denim  apron,  black 
blouse  with  white  neckerchief,  a  white  cap  with  broad 
frill.  Stands  with  arms  akimbo,  looking  at  BEAU  disdain- 
fully.-} 

BEAU.  Talking  of  angels!  Good  morning,  my  dear 
madam.  So  courteous  of  you  to  come.  It  is  not  my  reception 
day,  but  you  are  always  welcome.  Mortimer,  offer  this  good 
lady  a  chair. 

LANDLADY  [speaks  with  French  accent].  Chair,  humph! 
Your  Mortimer  had  better  offer  me  some  money,  some  rent 
money,  or  I'll  have  you  both  shown  to  the  door,  do  you  hear? 
[Rapping  on  table;  BEAU  starts  as  though  in  distress  at  each 
loud  rap]  That's  what  I  come  to  say.  [MORTIMER  now 
offers  her  a  chair]  No,  I  thank  you,  I'll  stand!  It's  my 
own  chair,  and  I  will  not  wear  it  out  by  sitting  in  it. 

BEAU.  Then  sit  in  it  yourself,  Mortimer;  I  cannot  permit 
you  to  stand;  you  are  tired.  I'm  so  sorry,  my  dear  madam, 
that  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you ;  the  supplies  for  which  Mor 
timer  went  out  a  short  time  ago  have  not  yet  arrived. 

LANDLADY  [sneeringly].  Supplies!  Not  yet  arrived! 
Well,  when  they  do  they  will  not  pass  my  door,  I'll  tell  you 
that.  [Hammers  on  table  again] 

BEAU  [wincing].  Do,  my  dear  madam,  do  help  yourself. 
And  speaking  of  helping  yourself  reminds  me,  would  you  mind 


72  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

returning  some  of  my  shirts?  I  am  sure  you  cannot  wear 
them  yourself.  Mortimer! 

MORTIMER.     Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.     How  many  were  there  in  the  wash  last  week? 

MORTIMER.     Twelve,  sir. 

BEAU.  Yes — now  if  you  wouldn't  mind  returning — Mor 
timer  ! 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  How  many  shall  I  require  for  the  remainder  of  the 
week? 

MORTIMER.     Five,  sir. 

BEAU.  Yes,  if  you  would  not  mind  returning  five,  I  think 
I  might  manage  for  the  remainder  of  the  week. 

LANDLADY  [who  has  been  restraining  her  wrath  with  dif 
ficulty].  I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  sir,  and  I'm  sick  of  your 
fine  manners.  I  want  more  of  the  money,  and  less  of  the 
politeness.  [With  an  exaggerated  bow,  mocking  BEAU.] 

BEAU  [taking  snuff].  You  mean,  my  dear  madam,  you 
want  more  of  the  politeness  and  less  of  the  money. 

LANDLADY  [furiously}.  What!  You  dare  insult  me? 
Pay  me  to-day,  or  out  into  the  street  you  go!  Your  polite 
talk  may  do  good  there.  It  may  do  for  the  stones,  but  it  will 
not  do  for  the  flesh,  not  for  this  flesh.  Pauper!  Pauper! 
Bah!  [She  shouts  the  last  three  words,  and  as  she  gets  to  the 
door  on  " Bah"  bangs  door  and  goes  out.  At  the  word  " Pau 
per"  BEAU  stands  as  though  turned  to  stone.] 

BEAU    [very  slowly].     Mortimer. 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.     What  did  she  call  me? 

MORTIMER  [half  sobbingly].     Pauper,  sir. 

BEAU  [sinking  into  chair  by  right  of  table].     Pauper! 

MORTIMER.     I  am  afraid,  sir,  she's  in  earnest. 

BEAU  [quite  simply].  She  had  that  appearance.  Morti 
mer,  we  must  find  the  money  somehow,  or  I  must  leave  Calais 
to-night. 

MORTIMER  [hesitatingly].  That  packet  of  letters,  sir,  for 
which  you  have  had  so  many  offers  from  publishers. 

BEAU.     What  packet,  Mortimer? 

MORTIMER.  Your  private  letters  of  gossip  and  scandal  from 
people  of  the  Court.  I  know  you  have  been  averse,  sir — 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  73 

[His  voice  dies  away,  as  BEAU,  drawing  himself  up,  gives  him 
a  withering  glance.] 

BEAU.  Mortimer,  you  surprise  me.  I  thought  you  knew 
me  better.  No.  I  would  rather  suffer  anything  than  live  by 
sacrificing  the  reputation  of  those  who  once  befriended  me. 
[Opens  drawer  in  table,  and  takes  out  packet  of  letters  tied 
with  a  faded  ribbon.  Fondles  them  for  an  instant, — then  goes 
to  fireplace,  kneels  and  throws  them  into  the  flames.}  There 
they  go,  Mortimer.  There  they  go — and  almost  any  one  of 
them  might  break  a  heart  or  blast  a  reputation.  And  see  how 
swiftly  they  vanish, — as  swiftly  as  would  the  reputations  which 
they  are  destroyed  to  save. 

MORTIMER.  I  was  wondering,  sir,  if  it  would  do  to  appeal 
to  His  Majesty.  He  might  overlook  what  happened  when  he 
was  Prince.  He  passes  through  Calais  to-day,  sir. 

BEAU  [rising  and  coming  to  table],  I  have  thought  of  it, 
Mortimer,  but  I  fear  it  would  be  in  vain — well,  we  might 
try.  Go  to  him,  Mortimer,  go  to  him,  and  take  him  [pauses 
to  think  what  MORTIMER  can  take,  and  feels  snuff-box  in 
pocket;  takes  it  out  and  handles  it  lovingly] — take  him  this 
snuff-box.  [Gives  MORTIMER  the  box.  Hardly  has  it  left 
his  hands,  however,  when  he  reaches  out  for  it  again.]  That 
is,  you  might  take  him  the  box,  but,  perhaps,  you'd  better  not 
take  him  the  snuff.  [MORTIMER  gives  BEAU  the  box.  BEAU 
picks  up  a  paper  lying  on  the  table,  saying:]  Bills,  bills. 
[Makes  the  paper  into  a  cornucopia,  and  empties  the  snuff 
from  the  box  into  it;  then  taps  box  on  the  table,  loosening  any 
remaining  particles  of  snuff  with  his  finger;  then  looks  at  table 
and  scrapes  any  remaining  there  into  the  cornucopia;  finally 
hands  box  to  MORTIMER.]  Give  it  to  him  with  your  own 
hands, — say  Mr.  Brummell  presents  his  compliments.  And  if 
that  fails,  like  everything  else — why,  then — 

MORTIMER.     And  what  then,  sir? 

BEAU.  Then,  [taking  snuff  elegantly  from  cornucopia] 
then,  Mortimer,  I  can  starve.  And  I  promise  you  I  shall  do 
it  in  the  most  elegant  manner.  And  you — you,  Mortimer, 
must  return  to  that  Japanese  girl;  what's  her  name? 

MORTIMER  [tearfully].     Kathleen,  sir. 

BEAU.  Yes.  Kathleen.  [Knock  at  door.  MORTIMER 
opens  it  and  starts  back  astounded.] 


74  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

MORTIMER.  Mr.  Vincent,  sir.  [VINCENT  enters,  puffing 
from  the  climb  upstairs.] 

BEAU  [is  astonished  and  annoyed;  puts  the  cornucopia  of 
snuff  hastily  into  his  pocket,  and  draws  his  dressing-gown 
around  him].  Mr.  Vincent!  My  dear  sir!  Why,  how  did 
you  find  your  way  here?  You  should  have  been  shown  into 
the  reception-room,  or  my  drawing-room,  or  my  library;  you 
find  me  in  my  morning-gown,  in  my  morning-room.  I  make 
a  thousand  apologies. 

VINCENT.  Don't,  don't;  I  was  passing  through  Calais 
and  I  just  happened  in.  Phew,  you're  pretty  high  up  here! 

BEAU.  Yes;  the  air  is  so  very  much  purer.  Will  you  be 
seated,  Mr. —  It  is  still  Mr.  Vincent,  is  it  not?  [To  him 
self:]  He  must  not  know  my  want,  my  poverty;  I  could  not 
suffer  this  man's  pity  or  compassion. 

VINCENT  [sits  at  left  of  table].  Before  I  forget  it,  let  me 
ask  you  to  do  me  the  honor  of  dining  with  me  to-day. 

BEAU  [with  an  involuntary  drawing-in  of  the  breath], 
Dine!  At  what  hour? 

VINCENT.     I  always  dine  at  five  o'clock. 

BEAU.  Thank  you ;  but  I  fear  you  will  have  to  excuse  me. 
I  could  not  possibly  dine  at  such  an  hour.  [Turns  from  table, 
and  goes  up  toward  window] 

VINCENT  [aside].  Not  changed  much  in  spirit,  but  in 
everything  else —  [Aloud]  Well,  Mr.  Brummell,  you  must 
lead  a  dull  life  of  it  here  in  Calais. 

BEAU  [still  at  window,  and  jauntily].  You  forget,  Mr. 
Vincent,  that  by  living  in  Calais  I  do  what  all  the  young  bucks 
do — I  pass  all  my  time  between  London  and  Paris. 

VINCENT.  Witty  as  ever,  Mr.  Brummell.  The  sea  air 
does  not  dampen  your  spirits. 

BEAU.  No;  and  I  use  none  other.  That  is  the  reason  I 
have  nothing  to  offer  you.  Had  I  known  of  your  coming  I 
should  have  been  better  prepared  to  receive  you.  [Comes 
down  and  sits  at  right  of  table] 

VINCENT  [looking  around  the  room].  You  must  be  hard 
pressed  for  money,  if  you  don't  mind  my  saying  so. 

BEAU  [very  hastily  and  airily,  and  rising].  Oh,  no!  You 
have  quite  a  mistaken  notion  of  my  affairs,  because  you  miss 
certain  useless  articles  given  away  as  pledges — [swallows  a 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  75 

word]  ahem  —  of  gratitude  for  favors  shown  me.  I  always 
pay  a  debt,  Mr.  Vincent,  when  it's  a  social  one. 

VINCENT.  But  those  other  debts  which  rumor  says  are 
overwhelming  you  again.  Now,  if  you'd  let  me  pay  them  — 

BEAU  [sits  at  right  of  table.  In  a  very  cold  tone]  .  Thank 
you,  thank  you.  No  doubt  you  intend  to  be  kind,  but  you  are 
impertinent.  [VlNCENT  turns  away  rebuffed  and  disap 
pointed.  BEAU  to  himself:]  No,  I  will  not  be  so  humiliated 
by  her  father.  I  would  rather  tell  a  little  lie  instead.  [To 
VINCENT.]  I  assure  you,  since  the  renewal  of  my  friendship 
with  the  Prince,  now  His  Majesty!  —  [Makes  a  slight 
bow  at  "  His  Majesty/'] 

VINCENT  [cominp  downf  delighted].  Friendship  with  His 
Majesty  ! 

BEAU.  What!  Has  not  rumor  told  you  that,  too?  She's 
a  sorry  jade,  and  sees  only  the  gloomy  side  of  things.  Then, 
I  suppose  you  have  not  heard  that  the  King  has  pensioned  me! 
[Takes  handkerchief  from  pocket;  it  is  full  of  holes.] 

VINCENT.     But  — 

BEAU.  I  see  you  still  have  that  very  unfortunate  habit  of 
"  butting."  Why,  how,  how,  without  a  pension,  could  I  keep 
up  this  establishment?  [Holding  up  the  tattered  handkerchief 
in  his  trembling  hand,  lie  says,  aside:]  If  he  can  tell  me  that 
he  will  help  me  more  than  he  knows. 

VINCENT.  All  the  more  reason,  then,  why  you  should 
return  to  London  and  marry  my  daughter. 

BEAU.  Are  you  still  obstinate  on  that  point?  Do  you 
still  refuse  her  to  Reginald?  [Knock  is  heard  at  door.] 

VINCENT.     There  is  Mariana.     I  told  her  to  join  me  here. 

BEAU  [rises  in  consternation,  draws  his  dressing-gown 
around  him,  looks  down  at  it].  Mariana  —  Miss  Vincent, 
coming  here.  Mr.  Vincent,  one  moment,  one  moment,  Mr. 
Vincent,  one  moment.  [Goes  hastily  to  door  at  right,  bows 
to  VINCENT,  and  exits.  MARIANA  enters  from  hall  door  at 


MARIANA.     Is  he  here?     Have  you  succeeded? 

VINCENT.  My  child,  we  have  heard  false  reports  in  town. 
He  has  a  pension  from  His  Majesty.  He  is  friends  with  the 
King.  Dear  me!  I  hope  I  haven't  offended  him. 

MARIANA.    A   pension,    papa!     [And    then   as   she    looks 


76  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

around  the  dingy  room.]  Are  you  quite  sure  he's  not  deceiv 
ing  you? 

VINCENT.     Quite  sure;  he  could  not  deceive  me. 

MARIANA.  Then,  father,  there  is  no  further  need  for  me 
to  make  the  sacrifice  you  demanded,  and  which  Mr.  BrummeH's 
need  did  justify. 

VINCENT.  By  no  means.  I  am  all  the  more  determined 
on  it. 

MARIANA.  I  also  am  determined  now,  and  say  I  will  not 
marry  him. 

VINCENT.  Tut,  tut!  Hush,  he's  coming — he's  somewhat 
changed.  [BEAU  enters.  He  has  put  on  his  coat — a  shabby, 
full-skirted  brown  coat.  Has  dingy  black  neckerchief  on. 
Bows  very  low  to  MARIANA.] 

BEAU.  Good  morning,  my  dear  Miss  Vincent.  I  trust  the 
stairs  have  not  fatigued  you.  You  should  feel  at  home,  so 
high  up  among  the  angels. 

MARIANA  [shows  she  is  much  affected  by  BEAU'S  changed 
appearance].  I  am  most  pleased,  sir,  that  we  find  you  happy 
with  the  world  and  with  yourself.  We  had  feared  othenvise. 

BEAU.  I  lead  a  charmed  life;  even  now,  you  see,  it  brings 
you  to  me. 

MARIANA.     And  has  it  brought  your  nephew,  too,  sir? 

BEAU.     That  may  be  your  privilege. 

MARIANA.  I  trust  it  may  be,  or  else  that  you  will  bring 
him  back  to  me.  [As  she  says  this,  she  turns  away  and  goes 
up  toward  the  window  with  VINCENT,  who  shows  he  is  not 
pleased  at  this  speech.  At  this  moment,  REGINALD  enters 
quickly,  throwing  hat  on  table  as  he  goes  by,  and  rushing 
up  to  BEAU,  holds  out  his  hand  eagerly.] 

REGINALD.     Uncle ! 

BEAU  [with  great  affection].  Reginald!  [Then  recollect 
ing  himself.]  No,  Reginald,  a  glance  of  the  eye.  Reginald, 
my  boy,  you  here,  too ! 

REGINALD.     I  heard  yesterday  of  your  distresses — 

BEAU  [hastily  interrupting  him].  Do  you  not  see  Miss 
Vincent  and  her  father?  [REGINALD  turns,  sees  MARIANA, 
and  crosses  to  window  to  her,  where  they  stand  eagerly  talking. 
VINCENT  goes  toward  hall  door,  evidently  very  anxious  to  get 
MARIANA  away.]  I  might  have  accepted  it  from  him,  but  he 
has  come  too  late.  This  Vincent  shall  not  know  the  truth. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  77 

But  Reginald  shall  have  Mariana,  and  Vincent  shall  give  her 
to  him. 

VINCENT.  I  think,  my  dear,  you  had  better  go  and  wait 
downstairs  for  me. 

BEAU.  No,  no,  let  Miss  Vincent  remain;  my  nephew  will 
entertain  her  [REGINALD  and  MARIANA  at  this  begin  talking 
more  confidentially],  and  I  wish  to  consult  you  privately  in 
my  room  for  a  few  moments. 

VINCENT.  Now,  my  dear  Mr.  Brummell,  I  must  insist 
on  Mariana's  retiring. 

BEAU.  And  I  must  insist  that  Miss  Vincent  remain.  I 
see  your  manners  have  not  improved.  I  will  not  detain  you 
a  moment.  I  wish  to  ask  your  advice.  I  hear  an  earldom  is 
soon  likely  to  become  vacant.  Now,  who's  eligible? 

VINCENT.     An  earldom ! 

BEAU.  You  know  more  about  matters  in  town  than  I,  and 
I  wish  to  be  prepared  in  case  my  influence  should  be  needed. 
Now,  what  name  would  you  suggest? 

VINCENT  [gasping].     You  honor  me,  Mr.  Brummell! 

BEAU.  Very  likely,  but  I  wish  you  wouldn't  gasp  so.  In 
deed,  I  do  honor  you  in  asking  you  for  your  daughter's  hand — 
[REGINALD  and  MARIANA  start  and  look  around.] 

VINCENT  [bows  very  low].     Mr.  Brummell! 

BEAU.  For  my  nephew!  [REGINALD  and  MARIANA  turn 
again  toward  window,  relieved.] 

VINCENT.  My  dear  Mr.  Brummell,  you  know  I  am  op 
posed  to  that,  and  I  hope  to  persuade  you — 

BEAU  [significantly].  Who  is  eligible  for  the  earldom — 
exactly — and  I  think — mind,  I  say  I  think — we  both  have  the 
same  person  in  mind.  But,  first,  I  must  persuade  you  who  is 
eligible  for  your  daughter.  [He  bows  to  VINCENT  and  mo 
tions  him  to  door  at  right.] 

VINCENT  [speaking  as  he  goes] .  Gad !  Zounds !  An  earl 
dom!  If  this  should  be  my  opportunity  .at  last.  Mariana 
shall  marry  the  boy  if  he  wants  it.  [Exits.] 

BEAU  [turns  to  speak  to  MARIANA  and  REGINALD,  and 
finds  them  so  absorbed  in  each  other  they  do  not  even  see  him. 
He  attracts  their  attention  by  knocking  a  chair  on  the  floor. 
They  start  guiltily  apart].  My  dears,  I  am  about  to  draw- 
up  the  marriage  settlement,  and,  perhaps,  I'll  make  my  will 
at  the  same  time  and  leave  you  everything.  [They  both  bow.] 


78  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

I  will  now  allow  you  to  settle  the  preliminaries  by  yourselves. 
[They  immediately  retire  again  to  the  window,  and  are  once 
more  absorbed  in  each  other.  BEAU  stands  watching  them  for 
a  few  minutes,  then  turns  away,  puts  hand  over  his  eyes  and 
totters  off.] 

MARIANA  [coming  down  left  of  table].  But  I  don't  under 
stand,  do  you? 

REGINALD  [coming  down  to  her  side].  I  don't  desire  to. 
I  take  the  fact  as  it  is.  [Kisses  her.] 

MARIANA.  I  think  you  take  much  else  besides,  sir.  Aren't 
you  a  trifle  precipitate? 

REGINALD.  No,  this  is  the  first  preliminary.  [Puts  arm 
around  her  waist.]  I  think  I  shall  linger  over  the  prelim 
inaries. 

MARIANA.     But  has  my  father  relented? 

REGINALD.     Surely!     Or  why  did  you  come  here? 

MARIANA.  We  heard  Mr.  Brummell  was  in  great  distress, 
and  we  came  to  help  him,  but  we  found  the  rumors  were  false; 
his  friendship  with  the  King  has  been  renewed. 

REGINALD.  Thank  Heaven!  Then  his  troubles  are  at  an 
end. 

MARIANA.  My  father  still  clung  to  the  idea  of  our  mar 
riage. 

REGINALD.    And  you? 

MARIANA.  That  question  is  superfluous,  sir.  Have  I  not 
allowed  the  first  preliminaries  to  be  settled?  [BEAU  and 
VINCENT  enter — VINCENT  a  little  ahead  of  BEAU.  Also 
MORTIMER  comes  on  dejectedly  from  hall  door.] 

BEAU.  Reginald,  give  me  your  hand.  [REGINALD  crosses 
to  him.] 

VINCENT  [who  has  crossed  over  to  left  of  table].  Mariana, 
come  to  your  father.  Are  you  still  bent  on  marrying  him  ? 

MARIANA.  You  mean,  papa,  that  he  is  still  bent  on  marry 
ing  me,  and  that  I— I  am  not  unwilling. 

VINCENT.     She  is  yours,  sir. 

REGINALD  [coming  back  to  MARIANA].     Mine! 

MORTIMER  [goes  up  to  BEAU  at  right  of  table,  and  hands 
him  snuff-box].  It  was  returned  without  a  word,  sir. 

BEAU  [in  a  loud  tone].  Beg  Her  Grace  to  excuse  me  this 
afternoon. 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir. 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  79 

REGINALD.  You  will  dine  with  us,  Uncle  Beau,  on  board 
the  vessel? 

BEAU.  Thank  you,  but  I  fear  you  will  have  to  excuse  me, 
and  now  pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  to  retire.  I  happen  to  have 
a  very  pressing  engagement. 

MARIANA.  When  will  you  be  in  London,  sir?  You  will 
be  there  for  our  wedding? 

BEAU.  I  hope  so — and  you  must  accept  some  little  present, 
some  little  trifle,  some  little  token  of  my  affection  and  regard — 
some — some — remembrance.  Now  what  shall  it  be?  Eh? 
What  shall  we  say?  [They  all  look  around  the  room,  which 
is,  of  course,  bare  of  all  ornament.]  What  do  you  really 
think  you  would  like  best — hum  ?  [Absently  fingers  the  snuff- 
box  which  MORTIMER  brought  him.']  Ah,  yes,  this  snuff-box 
— it  has  just  been  sent  to  me  by — His  Majesty.  [Hands 
MARIANA  snuff-box,  which  she  takes  with  deep  curtsy  and 
goes  back  to  REGINALD,  showing  it  to  him.] 

VINCENT  [at  door  as  he  goes  out].  I  shall  probably  hear 
from  you,  Mr.  Brummell? 

BEAU  [absently].  Ah,  yes,  perhaps — good-by.  Reginald, 
[REGINALD  comes  to  him;  BEAU  places  his  hand  on  REG 
INALD'S  shoulder]  God  bless  you —  [REGINALD  picks  up 
hat  from  table  and  crosses  to  door.  MARIANA  comes  down, 
gives  hand  to  BEAU,  curtsies;  BEAU  raises  hand  to  his  lips. 
MARIANA  draws  it  away,  backs  toward  door,  makes  another 
curtsy,  turns  to  REGINALD,  and  they  go  off  gaily,  apparently 
talking  to  each  other.  BEAU  puts  hand  over  eyes,  staggers 
back,  and  leans  against  table  for  support.] 


[THE  CURTAIN  FALLS.] 


THE  FOURTH  ACT 

SCENE  Two 

fAn  attic  room.  Sloping  roof.  Walls  discolored  with  the 
damp.  Paper  peeling  off.  Window  at  the  back.  A  bare 
deal-table  over  near  the  left,  with  one  chair  at  its  side. 
Another  chair  stands  down  near  the  front,  at  the  right- 
hand  side.  Another  chair  stands  at  the  back,  near  win 
dow.  There  is  a  door  at  the  right  and  one  also  at  the  left. 

BEAU  enters  at  the  right-hand  door.  You  can  hear  him  for 
some  time  before  he  enters,  stumbling  up  the  stairs  as 
though  feeble.  He  stands  for  a  moment  at  the  doorf 
bowing  very  low.  He  is  very  shabbily  dressed — his  hat 
battered — his  boots  gray. 

BEAU.  I  thought  I  saw  the  Prince  there,  [pointing  to 
chair]  there!  The  boys  mocked  me  in  the  streets — they  threw 
stones  at  me.  No  wonder;  there  has  been  no  varnish  on  my 
boots  for  days.  They  refused  to  give  me  a  cup  of  coffee  or 
a  macaroon.  They  would  rather  see  me  starve — and  starve 
so  in  rags.  [Sits  in  chair] 

MORTIMER  [enters  from  door  at  left].  Shall  I  announce 
dinner,  sir? 

BEAU  [starting].  No,  Mortimer,  I  have  only  just  come  in, 
and  you  forget  this  is  Thursday,  when  I  always  entertain. 
[Sinks  into  a  reverie] 

MORTIMER.  Poor  Mr.  Brummell!  He's  getting  worse 
and  worse.  Lack  of  food  is  turning  his  head  instead  of  his 
stomach.  But  I  don't  dare  oppose  him  when  he's  this  way. 

BEAU.     Mortimer! 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  I  could  get  nothing  for  us  to  eat,  Mortimer,  noth 
ing — and  they  refused  to  wash  my  cravats! 

MORTIMER.  Oh,  Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  what  shall  we  do? 
We  will  starve,  sir. 

BEAU  [severely].  Mortimer,  you  forget  yourself!  Who 
has  called  during  my  absence? 

80 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  81 

MORTIMER  [goes  up  to  the  window-ledge,  and  brings  down 
an  old  broken  plate  with  a  few  dirty  cards].  These  cards 
won't  last  much  longer.  I  have  been  bringing  him  the  same 
ones  on  Thursday  for  the  last  year.  [BEAU  has  fallen  asleep.] 
Mr.  Brummell,  sir!  Mr.  Brummell,  sir!  [He  puts  plate 
directly  in  front  of  BEAU.] 

BEAU  [starts  and  looks  at  plate].     The — the — card  tray. 

MORTIMER.  We've — lent  it,  sir!  [He  pushes  cards  for 
ward  with  his  thumb  and  finger,  as  BEAU  takes  them  one  by 
one  and  lays  them  back  on  plate.] 

BEAU.  Duchess  of  Leamington — thank  goodness,  I  was  out. 
Lord  Manly — do  we  owe  him  anything? 

MORTIMER.     No,  sir. 

BEAU.  Why  not?  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn — and  I  missed  her — 
no  matter!  They  will  all  dine  here  this  evening. 

MORTIMER  [taking  plate  back  to  ledge'].  Dine — that's  the 
way  we  eat — the  names  of  things — but  it  is  very  weakening — 
very  weakening. 

BEAU.     Mortimer! 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  Light  the  candelabra.  [Begins  to  sing  very  low  in 
a  quavering  voice:]  "  She  Wore  a  Wreath  of  Roses." 

MORTIMER.  Yes,  sir.  [He  goes  to  window-ledge,  and 
brings  down  to  table  two  pewter  candlesticks  with  a  little 
piece  of  a  candle  in  each  one.  He  lights  both  and  then  with  a 
quick  look  at  BEAU  blows  out  one.]  He'll  never  know,  and 
if  it  burns,  there  will  be  none  to  light  the  next  time. 

BEAU.     Mortimer! 

MORTIMER.     Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.     Is  my  hat  on? 

MORTIMER  [choking  back  a  sob].     Yes,  sir. 

BEAU  [lifts  hat  with  elegant  gesture;  his  hand  drops  and 
hat  falls  to  the  floor;  he  rises],  Mortimer,  I  hear  carriage 
wheels — carriage  wheels!  Observe  me,  Mortimer,  am  I  quite 
correct?  Are  there  creases  in  my  cravat?  I  would  not  wish 
to  make  creases  the  fashion. 

MORTIMER.     Mr.  Brummell,  sir,  you  are  quite  correct. 

BEAU.  To  your  post.  Bid  the  musicians  play.  [Bows 
as  though  welcoming  guest.]  Ah,  Duchess,  you  are  always 
welcome!  And  in  pink!  You  come  like  the  rosy  morning 
sunshine  into  the  darkness  of  my  poor  lodgings.  Lord  Manly! 


82  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

And  sober — truth  is  stranger  than  fiction.  The  Duchess's 
smiles  should  have  intoxicated  you.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn — Your 
Majesty!  [Bows  very  low.]  Pray,  sir,  honor  my  poor  arm. 
Permit  me  to  conduct  Your  Majesty  to  a  chair,  whilst  I  re 
ceive  my  less  distinguished  guests.  [Walks  to  chair  with 
imaginary  guest  on  his  arm]  My  dear  Lady  Farthingale,  how 
do  you  do?  As  beautiful  and  as  charming  as  ever.  [Backs 
up  a  little  and  knocks  a  chair  over]  I  beg  ten  thousand 
pardons!  My  dear  Lady  Cecilie,  how  you  have  grown  and 
how  beautiful.  {With  vacant  stare.]  Shall  we  dine?  Dine! 
Shall  we  dine?  Permit  me  to  escort  Your  Majesty  to  the 
table  where  we  dine!  [Goes  to  chair  and  escorts  the  imaginary 
king  to  the  table]  Yours  is  the  honor  and  mine,  Lady  Cecilie, 
my  charming  vis-a-vis.  Mariana — Mariana — always  nearest 
my  heart — always.  Mortimer — Mortimer! 

MORTIMER  [who  has  been  leaning  against  the  wall  with 
head  on  arm].  Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  His  Majesty  waits!  [Bows  to  right  and  left.] 
Enchanted!  Enchanted!  [Waits  until,  apparently,  they  are 
all  seated,  and  then  sits]  I  trust  you  will  find  these  oysters 
agreeable ;  they  arrived  but  this  morning  from  Ostend.  Bird's- 
nest  soup.  It  is  very  hot.  I  am  very  particular  to  have 
the  soup  hot  on  these  cold  evenings.  This  is  very  good 
melon. 

MORTIMER  [who  has  been  pretending  to  pass  things], 
Melon,  sir. 

BEAU.  Duchess,  I  trust  you  are  fond  of  ortolans  stuffed 
with  truffles.  Brown — and  glazed.  My  chef — my  chef — 
[Voice  dies  away] 

MORTIMER.  His  chef!  If  only  we  had  something  to  cook, 
I  should  not  mind  the  chef.  [Sinks  in  chair] 

BEAU.  Mariana,  let  me  fill  your  glass,  and  drink  with  me. 
My  dear.  My  own  always.  My  only  dear  one!  [His  head 
sinks  on  chest,  and  he  falls  asleep] 

KATHLEEN  [after  a  pause,  putting  her  head  in  at  the  door 
and  saying  very  softly:]  And  may  I  come  in? 

MORTIMER  [rising  in  bewilderment].  Kathleen!  And  has 
it  gone  to  my  head,  too? 

KATHLEEN  [half  crying].  No,  but  to  my  heart! — or  to 
yours — for  they've  gotten  that  mixed  I  don't  know  which  is 
which.  [They  embrace.} 


BEAU  BRUMMELL  83 

MORTIMER  [in  alarm,  fearing  BEAU  may  wake].     Hush! 

KATHLEEN.  Miss  Mariana  that  was,  Mrs.  Reginald 
Courtenay  that  is,  is  out  in  the  hall,  and  him  with  her. 
[MARIANA  and  REGINALD  come  in  at  door.] 

MARIANA.  Is  he  here?  [Gives  a  low,  horrified  exclama 
tion  at  BEAU'S  changed  appearance.] 

MORTIMER.  Yes,  madam,  but  I  fear  the  sudden  surprise 
of  seeing  you  will  kill  him. 

REGINALD.  But  the  King  is  in  town  with  his  suite.  We 
came  with  him,  and  they  followed  us  here  immediately. 

MORTIMER.    The  King! 

MARIANA.  Yes,  Mortimer;  your  master's  and  your  troubles 
are  over.  [MARIANA  and  REGINALD  cross  to  other  side  of 
table,  away  from  door] 

KATHLEEN  [aside  to  MORTIMER,  as  she  goes  up  to  window]. 
I  am  not  so  sure  but  yours  are  just  beginning. 

KING  [appearing  at  door}.     Zounds — is  this — 

MORTIMER  [bowing  very  low].  Your  Majesty,  I  beg  your 
pardon,  but — sh — sh — 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [at  door].     Dear  me,  you  don't — 

KING  [turning  to  her].     Sh — sh — 

DUCHESS.     But  how — 

KING  [goes  through  same  pantomime,  turning,  putting  fin 
ger  on  lip  and  saying:]  Sh! 

LADY  FARTHINGALE.    Where  is  Mr.  Brummell? 

KING   [as  before].     Sh!  Sh! 

LORD  MANLY.    Well — 

KING  [as  before].     Sh!  Sh! 

MORTIMER.  If  Your  Majesty  will  pardon  me,  I  think  I 
could  suggest  something.  Mr.  Brummell  has  just  been  imag 
ining  you  were  all  dining  with  him.  I  think  if  you  were  to 
take  your  places  at  the  table,  when  he  saw  you  the  truth  would 
gradually  come  to  him.  [They  all  sit — KING  at  left,  MRS. 
ST.  AUBYN  next,  then  the  DUCHESS.  MARIANA  and  REG 
INALD  are  at  the  right] 

MORTIMER.  Mr.  Brummell!  [Louder,  as  BEAU  does  not 
move]  Mr.  Brummell,  sir! 

BEAU.  Duchess,  let  me  send  you  this  saddle  of  venison ;  it's 
delicious.  [Wakes,  looks  around,  and  sees  MARIANA.] 
Mariana!  Mariana!  Reginald!  [They  come  to  his  side] 
Pardon  me  for  not  rising;  I  think  I  must  have  forgotten  my 


84  BEAU  BRUMMELL 

manners.  You  won't  leave  me,  Mariana?  You  won't  leave 
me,  will  you,  will  you? 

MARIANA.     No,  Mr.  Brummell. 

BEAU  [sees  MRS.  ST.  AUBYN.]  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn,  you — 
you  forgive? 

MRS.  ST.  AUBYN  [very  gently].  And  forget,  Mr.  Brum 
mell. 

BEAU  [sees  the  KING].     Your  Majesty!     Mortimer! 

MORTIMER.     Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.     Is  this  real — is  it — is  it? 

KING.  Yes,  Beau,  you've  hidden  from  all  of  us  long  enough 
— but  now  we've  found  you  we  don't  mean  to  lose  you.  We 
sup  with  you  to-night;  to-morrow  you  dine  in  London  with  us. 

BEAU.  Dine!  [Drawing  in  his  breath,  appreciatively.] 
Dine —  [Then  remembering.]  At  what  hour? 

MORTIMER  [bowing  and  whispering  to  the  KING],  At 
eight,  Your  Majesty,  at  eight! 

KING  [with  a  nod  of  understanding].     At  eight  o'clock. 

BEAU.     Mortimer,  have  I  any  other  engagement? 

MORTIMER  [with  fear  and  trembling].     No — oh,  no,  sirl 

BEAU.     I  shall  have  much  pleasure.     Mortimer! 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.     Mortimer! 

MORTIMER.    Yes,  sir. 

BEAU.  Should  anybody  call,  say  I  have  a  very  pressing 
engagement  with — with — His  Majesty.  [His  head  falls,  and 
he  sinks  into  chair,  supported  by  MARIANA  and  REGINALD. 
All  rise] 

[THE  CURTAIN  FALLS.] 


THE  COPPERHEAD* 

A  DRAMA  BY 
AUGUSTUS  THOMAS 

From  a  Story  by  Frederic  Landis  in  Two  Epochs  of 
Two  Acts  Each 


*  Copyright,  1918,  by  Augustus  Thomas.  The  acting  rights,  pro 
fessional  and  amateur,  and  the  motion  picture  rights  are  reserved  by 
the  author.  Permission  to  produce  this  play  must  be  obtained  from 
the  author,  who  should  be  addressed  in  care  of  The  American  Play 
Company,  33  West  42  Street,  New  York. 


The  Copperhead,  by  Augustus  Thomas,  is  a  freel"  rendered 
dramatic  version  of  Frederic  Landis's  tale,  The  Glory  of 
iHis  Country.  Mr.  Thomas's  first  experiment  with  the  story 
was  a  one-act  play  put  on  at  the  Lambs'  Club  in  New  York. 
There  it  was  acclaimed  by  the  professional  audience  privileged 
to  see  it.  The  success  of  the  play  in  its  short  form  gave  Mr. 
Thomas  the  idea  of  using  the  same  material,  with  certain 
additions,  for  a  four-act  play  in  the  nature  of  a  chronicle  his 
tory.  "  The  difficulty,  from  a  dramatic  point  of  view,"  as 
Mr.  Thomas  has  told  the  present  editor,  "  lay  in  putting  into 
action  the  incidents  described,  in  that  they  covered  two  periods 
with  an  interval  of  some  forty  years.  This  lack  of  unity,  how 
ever,  became  an  attraction  in  the  play  as  it  enforced  the  dra 
matic  presentation  of  these  two  periods,  so  widely  different  in 
habit  of  thought,  point  of  view,  speech,  and  custom.  The  first 
two  acts  deal  with  the  early  period  of  the  Civil  War,  Lincoln's 
call  for  volunteers,  and  the  exciting  events  that  followed  the 
beginning  of  the  conflict.  The  second  period  is  very  near  our 
own  time  and  deals  entirely  with  the  consequences  of  those 
events  upon  the  circumstances  of  the  third  generation.  In  Mr. 
Landis's  story,  the  old  man  Shanks  dies  as  he  imparts  his  life 
long  secret  to  his  friends  and  enemies.  In  the  play,  for  reasons 
which  will  be  evident,  the  author  has  him  live  and  makes  the 
satisfactory  conclusion  of  the  drama  depend  upon  this."  At 
a  time  when  the  fortunes  of  America  in  the  Great  War  still 
hung  in  the  balance,  the  appeal  of  this  play,  the  theme  of  which 
is  silent  and  self-sacrificing  patriotism,  was  instant  and  ef 
fective. 

Mr.  Lionel  Barrymore  created  the  part  of  Milton  Shanks 
when  the  play  opened  in  Hartford,  Connecticut.  It  came  to 
New  York,  to  the  Shubert  Theatre,  on  February  18,  1918, 
and  played  until  the  arrival  of  the  warm  weather.  It 
then  made  a  tour  of  the  country,  which  was  only  interrupted 
by  Mr.  Barrymore's  engagement  to  come  to  New  York  to 
play  with  his  brother  John  in  The  Jest.  In  the  opinion  of 
Mr.  Thomas,  there  is  no  other  American  actor  so  well  able 

87 


88  THE  COPPERHEAD 

to  suggest  both  the  youth  of  the  early  period  and  the  character 
of  the  old  man  in  his  eighties  as  Mr.  Lionel  Barrymore. 

The  Copperhead  reflects  several  circumstances  of  the 
playwright's  own  life.  In  Mr.  Thomas's  autobiography,  which 
he  calls  The  Print  of  My  Remembrance,  he  recounts  his  very- 
earliest  recollections:  "Another  happening  of  that  Homeric 
day  is  a  fair  where  my  mother  holds  me  high  in  the  crowd 
that  I  may  see  a  child  impersonating  the  old  woman  who  lived 
in  a  shoe,  and  had  so  many  children  she  didn't  know  what  to 
do.  That  little  girl  with  the  cap  and  spectacles  is  Nellie 
Grant,  selling  her  dolls  to  buy  clothes  for  soldiers."  In  The 
Copperhead,  Sue  Perley  and  Mrs.  Bates  describe  the  booths 
that  are  to  be  set  up  at  the  church  fair: 

"  SUE.  If  we  can  get  dolls  enough  by  to-morrow  we  are  going 
to  have  the  old  woman  that  lived  in  a  shoe. 

GRANDMA.     Have  what? 

MRS.  BATES.  The  S'Louis  papers  say  at  their  fair  Nellie  Grant,  the 
Gineral's  little  dotter,  was  the  old  woman — a  shoe  as  big  as  Elsie's 
bed  for  her  house  and  dozens  of  dolls  all  over  it." 

In  Act  I,  Ma  says,  "  I  stud  here  by  this  well  with  my 
arms  round  yer  neck,  Milt,  when  Joey  was  only  three — holdin' 
yer  back  that  time  from  Mexico."  Mr.  Thomas's  own  father 
had  gone  to  the  Mexican  War  and  had  participated  in  the 
Doniphan  Expedition. 

In  Mr.  Thomas's  study  in  New  York  at  the  present  time, 
hangs  the  copy  of  the  Lincoln  life  mask  which  plays  so  im 
portant  a  part  in  the  last  act  of  The  Copperhead.  Mr. 
Thomas  received  this  mask  from  the  son  of  the  sculptor  who 
made  it.  In  this  same  last  act,  Shanks  is  made  to  say :  "  Colo 
nel  Hardy  and  me  was  boys  together.  Our  Congressman  give 
me  an  appointment  to  go  to  West  Point,  but  Tom  Hardy 
ought  'o  had  it.  Besides,  'twasn't  convenient  for  me  to  go  to 
West  Point  jest  then,  so  I  resigned  it  fur  him."  It  is  a  fact 
that  Mr.  Thomas  as  a  boy  was  tutored  by  the  local  Methodist 
minister  and  won  an  appointment  to  West  Point  which  he  had 
to  decline  for  domestic  reasons. 

Mr.  Thomas's  interest  in  Lincoln  dates  back,  of  course,  to 
the  days  of  the  Civil  War.  In  The  Print  of  My  Remem 
brance?  he  writes : 

1  Augustus  Thomas's  The  Print  of  My  Remembrance  is  now  run- 


THE  COPPERHEAD  89 

"  Before  the  war  my  father  was  associated  with  Mr.  W.  N.  Wells, 
among  others,  in  the  formation  of  the  Republican  Party  in  the  St. 
Louis  district.  They  were  in  occasional  correspondence  with  Mr. 
Lincoln  at  Springfield,  not  yet  the  great  emancipator,  but  just  a 
clever  debater  who  was  attracting  attention  in  the  West.  One  of 
those  original  letters,  addressed  to  Mr.  Wells,  not  to  my  father,  is 
between  two  panes  of  glass  in  a  frame  and  a  folder  in  my  library. 
It  does  not  add  much  to  the  volume  of  Lincoln's  product,  but  as  it 
has  been  in  print  only  in  connection  with  my  play,  The  Copperhead, 
this  extract  may  have  for  many  a  genuine  interest: 

'All  dallying  with  Douglas  by  Republicans,  who  are  such  at  hearty 
is  at  the  very  least,  time  and  labor  lost;  and  all  such,  who  so  dally 
with  him,  will  yet  bite  their  lips  in  vexation  for  their  own  folly. 
His  policy  which  rigourously  excludes  all  idea  of  there  being  any 
wrong  in  slavery,  does  lead  inevitably  to  the  denationalization  of 
the  Constitution;  and  all  who  deprecate  that  consummation  and  yet 
are  seduced  into  his  support,  do  but  cut  their  own  throats.  True, 
Douglas  has  opposed  the  administration  on  one  measure,  and  yet 
may  on  some  other;  but  while  he  upholds  the  Dred  Scott  decision, 
declares  that  he  cares  not  whether  slavery  be  voted  down  or  voted 
up;  that  it  is  simply  a  question  of  dollars  and  cents,  and  that  the 
Almighty  has  drawn  a  line  on  one  side  of  which  labor  must  be  per 
formed  by  slaves,  to  support  him  or  Buchanan  is  simply  to  reach 
the  same  goal  by  only  slightly  different  roads. 

Very  respectfully, 

A.  LINCOLN.'" 

The  character  of  Grandma  in  The  Copperhead  suggests  to 
a  reader  of  the  autobiography  Mr.  Thomas's  own  grandmother. 
Mr.  Thomas  sketches  her  thus:  "Grandmother's  opinion  was 
the  most  decisive  in  our  family.  I  had  no  way  of  knowing 
it  wasn't  so  in  the  nation.  Her  impatience  with  McClellan 
and  Grant  and  even  Lincoln  seemed  to  have  an  effect.  At 
any  rate,  things  happened  when  she  got  mad  enough.  She 
permanently  affected  my  early  admirations." 

There  must,  indeed,  be  many  reflections  of  Mr.  Thomas's 
early  years  in  this  historical  play.  His  earliest  year  was  1857; 
his  birthday,  January  8;  the  place  of  his  birth,  a  little  house 
in  the  outskirts  of  St.  Louis,  Missouri.  He  was  the  son  of 
Elihu  Baldwin  Thomas  and  Imogene  Garrettson  Thomas. 
The  little  boy,  Augustus,  went  to  the  public  schools  for  six 
years,  between  the  ages  of  six  and  twelve.  He  writes  of  this 

ning  in  The  Saturday  Evening  Post.  It  is  to  be  published  in  book 
form  in  the  fall  of  1922.  It  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  im 
portant  texts  for  the  study  of  American  drama. 


90  THE  COPPERHEAD 

period  himself :  "  I  had  an  almost  uninterrupted  attendance  at 
regular  sessions  of  the  St.  Louis  grammar  schools.  .  .  .  When 
I  finished  I  had  a  card  publicly  given  me  for  my  recitation  of 
Marco  Bozzaris.  The  scene  is  indelible.  ...  I  can  see  my 
teacher  now,  the  bunch  of  lilacs  on  her  desk  and  just  behind 
her  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn.  It  had  been  there  all  winter,  but 
never  so  plain  as  on  that  fragrant  morning  in  the  spring  of 
1868,  with  the  girls  in  white  and  ribbons,  and  through  the 
open  windows  trees  and  grass  and  cowbells,  and  beyond  the 
sky  line  of  a  great  round  world  turning  upon  its  own  axis  once 
in  every  twenty-four  hours,  except  in  February,  which  has 
twenty-nine.  The  safety  of  our  republic  rests  upon  our  public 
schools." 

Part  of  the  lad's  education  was  carried  on  in  legislative 
bodies.  After  leaving  school,  he  was  first  a  page  in  the  Missouri 
Legislature,  and,  after  that,  page  in  the  Reconstruction  Con 
gress  of  1870,  the  Forty-First.  During  his  winter  in  Wash 
ington,  he  did  his  first  dramatic  writing,  condensing  from  mem 
ory  the  Rip  Van  Winkle  that  he  had  seen  Joseph  Jefferson  act. 
His  play  was  performed  in  a  stable  converted  to  the  uses  of  a 
little  playhouse.  On  this  amateur  stage  the  boy  also  acted  in 
his  own  versions  of  The  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

On  his  return  to  St.  Louis,  Augustus  Thomas  went  to  high 
school,  and  with  another  boy  began  the  publication  of  a  maga 
zine  called  Scratches  and  Sketches,  which  for  various  rea 
sons  lasted  for  just  five  weeks.  He  also  joined  a  dramatic 
club,  for  which  he  wrote  his  first  full-length  play  called 
Alone.  At  about  this  same  period  he  wrote  another  play 
for  amateurs  called  A  Big  Rise.  Speaking  of  these  and 
other  outlets  for  his  energy  in  the  days  of  his  youth,  Mr. 
Thomas  writes  in  The  Print  of  My  Remembrance:  "  My 
youngish  readers  .  .  .  may  infer  .  .  .  that  the  big  value  is  the 
self-expression  obtained ;  that  the  debating  society,  the  dramatic 
club,  the  singing  school,  the  art  class,  the  pursuits  that  invite 
brain  to  the  finger  tips,  and  to  become  articulate,  are  the 
interests  that  make  life  eloquent.  They  may  even  come  to 
have  opinions  and  to  believe  that  the  amount  of  self-expression 
encouraged  and  protected  in  any  country  is  the  measure  of 
liberty  in  that  country." 

In  remembering  his  boyhood,  Mr.  Thomas  records  how 
permanently  reading  and  learning  poetry  by  heart  influenced 


THE  COPPERHEAD  91 

his  development.  His  father  said  to  him,  "  What  you  fill 
your  head  with  in  that  fashion  now  will  stay  with  you  for  a 
long  while.  It  is  a  good  plan  to  select  the  best."  Mr.  Thomas 
recalls  with  gratitude  the  well-chosen  selections  of  the  old 
McGuffey  School  Readers  that,  as  the  oldsters  will  testify, 
contained  a  wide  range  of  selections  from  the  best  in  literature. 

As  he  grew  to  manhood,  Mr.  Thomas's  interest  in  amateur 
theatricals  became  more  and  more  active.  They  proved  the 
point  of  departure.  Presently  he  was  earning  his  living,  first 
as  the  assistant  treasurer  in  a  theatre  in  St.  Louis,  then  with  a 
company  on  the  road.  To  that  theatre  in  St.  Louis  where  he 
was  employed  came  some  of  the  greatest  actors  of  the  day,  who 
helped  on  his  education  in  things  connected  with  the  stage. 

Mr.  Thomas's  experiences  outside  of  the  theatre  have  in 
cluded  six  years  in  the  freight  department  of  a  railroad,  two 
years  at  the  study  of  law,  and  work  as  a  writer  and  illus 
trator  for  the  St.  Louis  Post  Dispatch,  the  St.  Louis  Republic, 
the  Kansas  City  Times,  the  Kansas  City  Mirror,  the  North 
western  Miller,  and  the  New  York  World. 

Edithas  Burglar,  dramatized  in  1887,  from  a  copy  of  St. 
Nicholas  in  which  Mrs.  Burnett's  story  had  appeared,  was  the 
first  of  Mr.  Thomas's  plays  to  be  produced  professionally  and 
to  be  shown  in  New  York.  Mr.  Thomas's  first  permanent 
work  in  New  York  was  at  the  Madison  Square  Theatre  with 
A.  M.  Palmer,  the  well-known  manager,  who  engaged  him  to 
take  the  place  of  Mr.  Dion  Boucicault  as  play-doctor.  Bouci- 
cault,  an  Irishman,  had  for  many  years  written  or  adapted 
plays  for  the  American  stage. 

For  many  years  Mr.  Thomas  has  been  a  prominent  figure 
in  Democratic  politics.  He  it  was  who  in  1908  seconded  the 
nomination  of  William  Jennings  Bryan  under  circumstances 
which  have  been  thus  described: 

"  Guessing  the  probable  source  of  the  great  American  play  is  a 
game  which  each  may  play  to  his  taste — genius  comes  when  it  comes 
and  blows  where  it  listeth.  In  the  small  hours  of  that  night  at 
Denver  in  1908,  when  the  Democrats  nominated  Bryan  for  the  third 
time,  somewhere  in  that  delirium  of  band  music,  howling,  and  ora 
tory  which  dragged  on  until  the  dawn  came  up  out  of  the  prairies, 
Mr.  Augustus  Thomas  arose  as  a  delegate  from  New  York  to 
address  the  convention.  I  well  remember  ...  the  cheery  sound,  after 
the  strange  aeolian  noises  that  had  preceded  them  of  those  terse 
authoritative  words.  The  author  of  Arizona  fulfilled  at  that  mo- 


THE  COPPERHEAD 


ment,  better  perhaps  than  any  of  our  other  play-writers  could  have 
done,  the  American  notion  that  the  artist  should  also  be  a  good 
citizen.  And  the  'great'  American  play,  one  suspects,  is  likely  to 
come  from  some  such  type  of  man — not  from  the  Ivory  Tower  nor 
'Broadway,'  but  closer  to  the  firing  line."1 

At  the  present  time  Mr.  Thomas  is  perhaps  the  most  sought- 
after  toastmaster  in  America.  His  talents  are  not  confined  to 
forensic  oratory. 

An  interesting  appraisal  of  his  work  as  a  playwright  is  this 
statement  of  William  Winter's,  written  some  time  ago: 

"The  genius  that  is  manifest  in  the  plays  [the  best  plays  of 
Augustus  Thomas]  is  that  which  intuitively  comprehends  human 
nature,  its  strength  and  its  weakness,  its  temptations  and  its  trials; 
which  sees  the  whole  vast  current  of  humanity,  the  diversified  char 
acters,  pathetic  or  antipathetic;  the  blessings  and  the  cruelties  of 
condition;  which  discriminates  between  good  and  evil,  being  aware 
that  those  elements  are  strangely  commingled  in  every  human  crea 
ture;  and  which  can  seize  and  reproduce  the  points  and  moments 
when  circumstances  long  fluent  in  a  hidden  drift  and  feelings  long 
intensifying  themselves  in  concealment  break  suddenly  into  view  and 
become  motives  and  vehicles  of  action — that  being  the  one  abso 
lutely  and  imperatively  essential  constituent  of  drama."  2 

The  following  is  a  complete  list  of  Mr.  Thomas's  plays : 


Alone 

The  Big  Rise 

Combustion 

The  Burglar  (1889) 

Editha's  'Burglar  (1887) 

A  Night's  Frolic  (1890) 

Reckless  Temple   (1890) 

A  Woman  of  the  World  (1890) 

A  New  Year's  Call  (1891) 

Surrender  (1893) 

Alabama   (1891) 

For  Money  (1892) 

A  Man  of  the  World  (1889) 

After  Thoughts   (1890) 

Colonel   Carter   of   Cartersville 

(1892) 

The  Capitol  (1894) 
In  Mizzoura   (1893) 


New  Blood  (1894) 

A  Proper  Impropriety   (1893) 

The  Music  Box   (1894) 

The  Hoosier  Doctor 

The  Man  Upstairs 

The  Meddler 

Matinee  Idol 

Chimmie  Fadden 

Soldiers  of  Fortune  (1900) 

On  the  Quiet 

The  Jucklins 

Arizona    (1898) 

Oliver  Goldsmith 

Colorado 

That  Overcoat 

The  Earl  of  Pawtucket  (1903) 

The  Other  Girl  (1902) 

Mrs.  Leffingwell's  Boots    (1903) 


1  Arthur  Ruhl,  Second  Nights,  New  York,  1914,  p.  321. 

2  William  Winter,  The  Wallet  of  Time,  New  York,  1913,  Vol.  II, 
p.  529. 


THE  COPPERHEAD  93 

De  Lancey  At  Bay 

The  Education  of  Mr.  Pipp  (1903)       Indian  Summer 

The  Embassy  Ball  The  Battle  Cry  (1914) 

The  Ranger  The  Nightingale 

The  Witching  Hour  (1907)  Rio  Grande  (1914) 

The  Harvest  Moon   (1913)  The  Copperhead   (1917) 

The  Member  from  Ozark  Nemesis   (1921) 

Champagne  Charley  (1901)  Palmy  Days  (1920) 

As  a  Man  Thinks   (1911)  The  Tent  of  Pompey 

The  Model  Colonel  George  of  ML  Vernon 

Mere  Man  The  Vanishing  Lady   (1922) 

No  playwright  since  Bronson  Howard  has  analyzed  his  own 
practices  as  a  dramatist  so  carefully  as  has  Augustus  Thomas. 
Six  of  his  plays  have  been  printed  with  prefaces  explaining  in 
every  case  how  the  particular  play  came  to  be  written  and 
what  circumstances  developed  the  course  of  character  and 
action.  These  prefaces  show  how  a  play  like  In  Mizzoura 
was  written  to  provide  Nat  Goodwin  with  an  opportunity  to 
star;  how  the  action  of  Oliver  Goldsmith  is  a  tissue  of 
eighteenth  century  relations  and  circumstances,  the  fabrication 
of  which  was  suggested  by  Stuart  Robson's  resemblance  to 
Noll ;  how  The  Earl  of  Pawtucket  grew  out  of  an  attempt  to 
fit  the  amusing  mannerisms  of  Lawrance  D'Orsay  into  a 
comedy;  how  The  Other  Girl  was  intended  in  the  first  place 
especially  to  exercise  the  talents  of  John  Drew  and  Lionel 
Barrymore;  how  Mrs.  LeffingwelFs  Boots,  a  very  light  comedy 
of  manners,  owed  its  origin  to  a  dinner  party  balked  by  a  bliz 
zard  and  to  a  table  fountain  that  once  sprayed  itself  inoppor 
tunely  in  the  direction  of  Francis  Wilson,  a  guest  at  Mr. 
Thomas's  board;  and,  finally,  how  The  Witching  Hour  was 
"  built  to  carry  a  theory."  These  six  prefaces  are  illuminating 
documents  for  the  student  of  American  drama. 

Mr.  Thomas  considers  the  creative  processes  connected  with 
plays  like  The  Copperhead  or  Oliver  Goldsmith  less  interesting, 
if  we  interpret  him  rightly,  than  the  creative  processes  involved 
in  writing  other  kinds  of  plays.  In  discussing  his  work  on 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  Mr.  Thomas  expresses  himself  thus:  "  It  is 
largely  a  *  scissors  and  paste-pot  *  undertaking,  and  is  the  least 
difficult  and  least  commendable  of  a  playwright's  perform 
ances,  excepting,  perhaps,  the  dramatizing  of  a  novel,  which  it 
strongly  resembles.  The  finished  product,  dependent  as  it  is 
upon  research,  can  never  have  the  value  of  a  play  written  by 


94  THE  COPPERHEAD 

equal  experience  and  based  on  observation,  but  dramatic  litera 
ture  would  nevertheless  be  the  loser  if  we  eliminated  such 
plays  as  Richelieu,  David  Garrick,  Edmund  Kean,  Amy 
Robsart,  Beau  Brummell,  Nathan  Hale,  Tom  Moore,  Disraeli 
and  the  like,  all  made  after  much  the  same  fashion." 

An  interviewer  once  put  the  following  questions  and  re 
ceived  the  following  answers  from  Mr.  Thomas: 

"What  would  you  say  are  the  elements  that  go  to  make  up  a  dis 
tinctively  American  play?" 

"An  American  play  might  be  thoroughly  American  and  at  the 
same  time  universal.  I  believe  that  a  pl~y  could  be  written  with 
such  a  sure  seizure  of  primal  and  eternal  relationship  as  to  make  it 
go  in  Japan  as  well  as  in  America.  The  things  that  so  distinguish 
American  plays  as  a  class  from  the  plays  of  other  countries  are  the 
absence  of  the  morbid  consideration  of  the  sex  question  and  the 
absence  of  recognition  and  admission  of  stratified  social  ranks.  ..." 

"  What  should  you  say  is  the  one  quality  that  makes  a  play 
popular  in  this  country?" 

"  There  is  no  particular  quality  that  has  the  field  to  itself.  Any 
play  will  succeed  in  America  which  hopefully  entertains;  ^ and,  if  I 
were  to  be  called  upon  to  name  the  most  valuable  quality  in  a  play, 
I  should  say  its  expression  of  an  ideal  sufficiently  above  the  level  of 
its  audience  to  attract  them  and  not  so  far  above  that  level  as  to 
be  considered  apocryphal  or  discouraging."  l 

In  the  autumn  of  1915,  following  Charles  Frohman's  loss  on 
the  Lusitanta,  Mr.  Thomas  was  made  Art  Director  of  this 
manager's  reorganized  companies.  He  carried  the  burden  of 
this  work  for  two  years.  Mr.  Thomas  was  at  one  time  presi 
dent  of  the  Society  of  American  Dramatists.  He  is  a  member 
of  the  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters. 

5-Van  Wyck  Brooks,  Augustus  Thomas,  The  World's  Work,  New 
York,  1909,  Vol.  18,  page  11885. 


THE  COPPERHEAD 

CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

(In  the  order  of  their  appearance) 

FIRST  EPOCH 

JOEY  SHANKS Raymond  Hackett 

GRANDMA  PERLEY < . .  .  Eugenie  Woodward 

MA  SHANKS Doris  Rankin 

CAPTAIN  HARDY  Albert  Phillips 

MILT  SHANKS Lionel  Barrymore 

MRS.  BATES Evelyn  Archer 

SUE  PERLEY Gladys  Burgette 

LEM  TOLLARD Ethelbert  Hales 

NEWT  GILLESPIE William  C.  Norton 

ANDREWS Harry  Hadfield 

SAM  CARTER Chester  Morris 

ADDITIONAL  CHARACTERS  IN  SECOND  EPOCH 

MADELINE  KING .Doris  Rankin 

PHILIP  MANNING Thomas  Corrigan 

MRS.  MANNING Grace  Reals 

DR.  RANDALL   Hayden  Stevenson 


SYNOPSIS 

FIRST  EPOCH— 1861-63. 

ACT  I.     The  door  yard  of  Milton  Shanks. 
ACT  II.     The  Same.     Two  years  later. 

SECOND  EPOCH— Forty  years  later. 

ACT  III.     The  dooryard  of  Milton  Shanks. 
ACT  IV.     The  living  room. 

Scene  laid  in  southern  Illinois. 


CHARACTERS  IN  PART  ONE 

JOEY  SHANKS  Aged  16 

GRANDMA  PERLEY ,  <  76 

MA  (MRS.  SHANKS)  . ." ,  ' 

CAPTAIN  HARDY 

MILT  SHANKS  

MRS.  BATES   * .'  [ 

SUE  PERLEY "  \A 

LEM  TOLLARD  «  ^o 

NEWT  GILLESPIE "  30 

ANDREWS,  a  minister ,. .  «  go 

SAM  CARTER .'.'.'.'.*.',    "  24. 


PART  I 
ACT  I 

SCENE 

The  dooryard  on  the  Illinois  farm  of  MILTON  SHANKS. 

At  the  stage,  right,  is  a  porch  raised  six  inches  from  ground 
attached  to  the  lean-to  kitchen  of  SHANKS'  house ',  the  roof 
of  which  disappears  to  the  right.  Under  the  porch  down 
si-age  is  a  window  with  a  door  in  second  entrance.  Behind 
the  porch  a  rail  or  other  rough  fence  straggles  across 
stage.  The  back  drop  shows  a  half  hilly  country  with  the 
wet  stubbly  earth  of  early  spring.  Painted  on  the  center 
of  this  drop  is  a  sycamore  tree  sufficiently  distinctive  to 
help  identify  the  same  drop  under  July  color  and  vegeta 
tion  in  Act  Two. 

On  the  stage  at  the  corner  of  the  house  up  right  is  a  small 
lilac  bush  which  shows  three  years  advance  in  Act  Two, 
and  is  a  good  lilac  tree  of  forty  odd  years  of  age  in  the 
last  two  acts.  To  the  left  of  stage  in  second  plane  is 
rough  log  curb  to  well  fitted  with  bucket  on  a  long  sweep 
with  a  fulcrum  at  the  side  of  well  and  tail  of  sweep 
running  off  to  the  left.  Above  this  well  is  a  young  apple 
tree,  bare,  to  be  in  foliage  and  fruit  in  Act  Two,  and  to 
be  a  stalwart,  old,  gnarly  apple  tree  in  the  last  two  acts. 
The  wings  at  the  left  are  bushes.  The  whole  dooryard 
is  filled  with  a  litter  of  neglected  farm  material,  such  as 
grindstones,  plow,  bits  of  harness,  a  broken  wheelt  the 
running  gear  of  a  wagon,  and  the  like. 

DISCOVERED 

JOEY,  a  boy  of  sixteen.  He  is  dressed  like  the  son  of  a  poor 
farmer  of  1861.  Joey  is  molding  minnie  balls  viw  a  chfir- 

98 


THE  COPPERHEAD  99 

coal  fire,  using  one  mold  as  a  second  one  cools,  and  drop 
ping  the  finished  product  into  a  bucket.  He  is  impatient 
and  fretful. 

'After  a  mold  or  two,  GRANDMA  PERLEY  enters  from  the  road. 
GRANDMA  is  seventy-six — a  farmer  s  woman  of  the  time. 
She  smokes  a  crock  pipe  with  a  reed  stem. 

GRANDMA.     Is  that  you,  Joey? 

JOEY.     Yes'm. 

GRANDMA.     Where's  your  ma? 

JOEY.     Sewing — inside. 

GRANDMA.    You  seem  cross  about  sumpin'. 

JOEY.     I  want  to  be  drillin'  and  they  detailed  me  doin'  this. 

GRANDMA.     Drillin' ! 

JOEY.     Yes. 

GRANDMA.     "Detailed"  ye.     Have  you  volunteered? 

JOEY.     You  bet  I've  volunteered. 

GRANDMA  [in  approval].  Well,  then,  you  go  drill — I'll 
do  that  for  you. 

JOEY.     Maybe  you  wouldn't  know  how,  Mrs.  Perley. 

GRANDMA.     Yes,  I  would. 

JOEY  [explaining'].  This  is  hot  lead.  A  drop  of  it'll  burn 
right  thro'  yer  shoe  before  you  kin  kick  it  off. 

GRANDMA.     1  know. 

JOEY.     You  pour  it  in  these  holes  with  this  iron  spoon. 

GRANDMA.  Lord,  boy,  don't  teach  yer  gran'mother  how  to 
suck  aigs!  I  molded  bullets  fer  Andrew  Jackson.  WTiere's 
yer  knife  to  trim  'em? 

JOEY.     This  is  it. 

GRANDMA.     All  right.     Run  along  and  drill. 

JOEY  [with  sample].  But  these  ain't  exactly  bullets. 
They're  minnie  balls.  That  ring  around  'em  is  to  fasten  the 
paper  cottridge  onto.  Here's  one  with  the  cottridge  on  it 

GRANDMA.  I  know  all  about  it.  And  the  ring  holds  mut 
ton  taller  that  turns  into  verdy  grease — an*  you  can't  volun 
teer  unless  ye  got  front  teeth  ter  tear  the  cottridge  paper  to 
let  the  powder  out  when  you  ram  the  cottridge  home. 

JOEY.     That's  right,  grandma. 

GRANDMA.  In  1812  every  man  had  a  powder-horn.  This 
idear  of  the  powder  fastened  right  on  the  bullet  is  twice  as 
quick. 


loo  THE  COPPERHEAD 

JOEY.  And  the  sharp  nose  on  the  bullet  makes  'ent  go 
further. 

GRANDMA.  Let  a  Yankee  alone  for  inventions.  Go  on  and 
drill,  my  boy. 

JOEY.  Thank  you,  grandma.  [Enter  MA.  She  is  a  beauti 
ful,  dark-haired  drudge,  aged  thirty-four.  She  carries  a  coat.] 

MA.     Where  you  goin',  Joey? 

JOEY.     Ter  drill. 

MA.     I  want  you. 

JOEY  [going}.  They  ain't  time,  ma,  now — honest  they  ain't. 
[Exit.  He  runs  off  behind  the  house.} 

GRANDMA.  Let  him  alone,  Mrs.  Shanks.  I  told  him  I'd 
spell  him  at  these  molds.  It's  wimmen's  work,  anyhow,  at 
war  times. 

MA.    You're  spoilin'  him. 

GRANDMA.  A  boy  'at  wants  ter  volunteer  has  a  right  ter 
be  spoiled — some. 

MA  [hesitating}.  I  wanted  to  match  these  button-holes — 
but  I  'spose  I  kin  measure  'em  from  the  bottom. 

GRANDMA  [rising}.    Why,  I'll  try  it  on  fur  yer. 

MA.    Will  that  do  it? 

GRANDMA.  Why  not?  Kain't  tell  from  my  shoulders 
whether  I'm  wearin'  breeches  or  not,  kin  you?  An*  anyhow, 
I'm  smokin'  a  pipe  man  fashion.  [They  try  on  the  coat.} 

MA.     I  hate  ter  see  a  coat  pucker  when  it's  buttoned. 

GRANDMA.     No  need  to  have  it  pucker. 

MA  [kneeling}.  I'll  jest  put  a  pin  at  each  place.  [Does 
so.}  Joey  bed  no  right  to  unload  that  work  onto  you. 

GRANDMA.  I  molded  bullets  before  they  ever  invented  a 
shot-tower.  I  was  only  twenty-five  years  old  at  Fort  Dear 
born  and  we  wimmen  all  molded  'em — big  and  little.  Jim 
Madison  had  let  the  English  set  the  red-skins  onto  us  and 
thet  meant  more  to  the  wimmen — I  tell  ye — than  it  did  to  any 
man. 

MA  [finishing}.     Thank  you,  grandma. 

GRANDMA  [resuming  work  with  the  bullet-mold}.  Any 
war  will  always  mean  more  to  the  wimmen.  It's  easy  enough 
to  fight,  and  easy  enough  to  die.  Stayin'  behind  with  yer  stum- 
mick  empty — an'  yer  hands  tied — an'  yer  hearts  a-breakin',  is 
the  perfect  torment. 

MA.     We  kin  hope  and  pray  this  won't  be  a  real  war. 


,  THE  COPPERHEAD  !  :  ;;ior 

GRANDMA  [shakes  head].  No  fool's  paradise,  Martha. 
Men  that  own  niggers  ain't  a  gonta  git  skeered  'cause  Mr. 
Lincoln  jumps  at  'em  and  hollers  "  Boo."  He's  got  a  bigger 
job  than  Jim  Madison  hed,  and  thet  lasted  two  years.  These 
hellions  are  right  on  the  ground — in  the  very  midst  of  us — 
some  of  'em's  livin'  right  here  in  our  own  state,  an'  to  git  'em 
out'll  be  like — bugs  in  a  rope  bedstid. 

MA  [going  toward  house].  Two  years!  Joey'll  be  eighteen 
before  then. 

GRANDMA.     Yes — if  he  lives. 

MA  {turning,  alarmed].  If  he  lives!  Why,  Grandma 
Perley! 

GRANDMA.    An'  I'll  be  sevinty-six — if  /  live. 

MA  [on  porch].  Come  in  and  hev  some  tea,  won't 
you? 

GRANDMA.  No,  thank  you.  I've  got  my  pipe  and  this  hot 
lead  brings  back  old  times  a  bit.  [Enter  HARDY,  in  captain's 
uniform.  A  soldier  follows,  without  uniform.] 

HARDY.     Good-afternoon.     Is  Milt  at  home? 

MA.  Good-afternoon,  Captain.  He's  inside.  [Calls.] 
Milt — here's  Captain  Hardy. 

HARDY.     Good-afternoon,  Mrs.  Perley. 

GRANDMA.     How  de  do,  Captain. 

HARDY  [goes  to  the  well  curb].     Doing  your  share,  I  see. 

GRANDMA.  Tryin'  to,  Captain — an'  I'll  keep  the  wimmen 
o'  this  neighborhood  at  sumpin'  as  long  as  the  trouble  lasts. 
[Enter  SHANKS,  with  baby,  which  MA  takes.  SHANKS  is  a 
farmer  of  thirty-six.] 

SHANKS.     Afternoon,  Captain  Tom. 

HARDY.    You've  got  a  wagon  and  two  horses,  Milt? 

SHANKS.     I  hev — yes. 

HARDY.  My  company's  got  orders  to  move.  The  ammuni 
tion  and  supplies  will  need  four  wagons  to  carry  them. 

SHANKS.  Well,  I  kain't  stop  yer  takin'  mine,  if  you  mean 
that. 

HARDY.  I  don't  want  to  take  it.  We'll  hire  it — and  we'll 
pay  you  for  your  time,  too. 

SHANKS  [shakes  head].     I  couldn't  go  myself. 

MA.     Why  not,  Milt? 

SHANKS.  I  don't  hold  fur  this  coercin'  of  the  Southern 
people — I  don't. 


10* '-"  ;  !  -T:HE  .COPPERHEAD 

HARDY.  You  hold  for  the  North  defending  itself  when  the 
South  begins  shooting,  don't  you? 

SHANKS.  I  don't  really  know  as  I  do.  They  haven't  come 
into  our  territory  any — yit! 

HARDY.     They're  threatening  the  arsenal  at  St.  Louis. 

SHANKS.     Well,  Missouri's  a  slave  State,  ain't  it? 

HARDY  [impatient}.  I  can't  do  your  thinking  for  you  now. 
I  want  your  team. 

SHANKS  [hands  up].     Well,  youVe  got  the  power. 

HARDY.     Can't  you  persuade  him,  Mrs.  Shanks? 

MA.  I'm  afraid,  Captain,  that  his  head's  turned  with  these 
secession  sympathizers.  He's  wearin'  one  of  their  copper 
buttons. 

GRANDMA.  The  Tories  tried  that  "  sympathizin'  "  business 
in  1812.  We  burnt  one  o'  their  newspaper  offices  and  run 
some  o'  them  theirselves  over  the  line  ter  Canada. 

HARDY  [writing].  I'll  take  your  team,  Milt — but  I'll  give 
you  a  Government  warrant  that'll  get  you  the  money  for  it. 

SHANKS.  Make  it  in  ma's  name,  Captain.  In  my  eyes, 
it'd  be  blood  money. 

MA.  Will  you  eat  the  provisions  I  buy  with  the  blood 
money  ? 

SHANKS.  Not  if  you  keep  'em  separated  from  what  I  bring 
in,  I  won't. 

HARDY.  There,  Mrs.  Shanks.  'Tisn't  their  value,  per 
haps,  but  that's  the  Government  rate. 

MA.     Thank  you. 

HARDY  [to  SHANKS].     Show  us  your  team. 

MA.  Oh,  Captain,  these  buttons — does  it  matter  if  I  sew 
clear  through  the  facin's?  I  kain't  pick  up  one  piece,  tailor- 
fashion. 

HARDY.  Not  a  bit.  Tie  them  on,  if  you  want  to.  Cc.  e, 
Milt?  [Exit  with  SHANKS  and  soldier.'] 

GRANDMA.  Hardy's  more  tender  with  Milt  than  Nathan 
Heald  would  a  been. 

MA.     Who? 

GRANDMA.  Captain  Nathan  Heald  commanded  at  Dear 
born.  A  militia  man  talked  meal-mouthed  like  Milt  done 
jest  now,  and  Nathan  Heald  took  his  sword  hilt  butt  end  and 
knocked  out  all  his  teeth.  [Enter  MRS.  BATES  from  road 
back  of  house,  carrying  a  blue  coat  she  ^uorks  on.] 


THE  COPPERHEAD  103 

MRS.  BATES.     Ain't  that  Captain  Hardy? 

MA.     Yes.     What's  the  matter? 

MRS.  BATES.  I  forget  which  side  of  a  man's  coat  the  but 
ton-holes  go  on. 

MA.     Why,  the  left  side. 

MRS.  BATES.    Air  you  sure? 

GRANDMA.  Ain't  you  never  made  no  clothes  fur  yer  own 
men  folks? 

MRS.  BATES.     Not  soldier  clothes,  I  ain't. 

GRANDMA.  Well,  the  left  side  fur  button-holes — right  side 
fur  buttons.  Men  are  all  one-handed.  Wimmen's  clothes 
button  with  the  left  hand  so  they  can  have  their  right  arm 
to  carry  a  baby. 

MRS.  BATES.  Jim  said  I  was  wrong.  I've  sewed  this  but 
ton-hole  slip  the  tailor  gave  us,  on  the  wrong  side. 

GRANDMA.     Rip  it  off. 

MRS.  BATES.     I've  cut  thro'  the  cloth  that's  over  it. 

GRANDMA.  Never  mind.  They'll  find  some  left-handed 
man.  [Enter  SUE,  a  girl  of  fourteen.'] 

SUE.     Oh,  Mrs.  Shanks! 

MA.     What  is  it,  Sue? 

SUE.     The  men  are  going  away. 

GRANDMA.     W"hy  ain't  you  at  the  church  pickin'  lint? 

SUE.     My  bundle's  all  done.     They're  going  right  away. 

MRS.  BATES.     They'll  have  to  wait  for  this  coat,  I  reckon. 

GRANDMA    [rising].    You  sure?     [To   SUE.] 

SUE.     Yes,  grandma. 

GRANDMA.  Then  they  better  have  what's  done  of  these. 
[Begins  to  trim  the  bullets  and  collect  them.] 

SUE.     Oh,  grandma!     Bullets!     [Reenter  SHANKS.] 
TGRANDMA.     Yes,  bullets. 

SUE.     That  don't  seem  like  woman's  work. 

GRANDMA.  In  a  real  war,  everything's  woman's  work, 
from  bringin'  'em  into  the  world  right  up  to  closin'  their 
eyes. 

MA  [shocked].  Oh,  Mrs.  Perley!  [MRS.  BATES  also 
shrinks  and  exclaims.] 

GRANDMA.  Oh,  you  wimmen  with  yer  "  faint  an'  fall  in 
it "  high  falutin's  are  what's  makin'  the  fool  peace  talk  amongst 
the  men.  [Goes  to  gate  with  bucket.]  "  Close  their  eyes  " — 
yes.  A  man  plows  and  threshes  and  grinds  hisself  to  death  in 


104  THE  COPPERHEAD 

sixty  years  and  ye  call  it  the  Lord's  will.  I  don't.  It's  what 
he  dies  fur  that  tells  the  tale.  I  lost  a  husband  at  Fort  Dear 
born,  and  a  father  at  Detroit,  and  a  brother  on  Lake  Erie  — 
different  ages  then,  but  equal  now,  'cause  they  died  fur  Free 
dom  —  fur  Liberty.  [Exit.] 

SUE.     Gramma  ought  a  been  a  man.     [Exit.] 

MA.  Take  this  child;  I  gotta  finish  these  buttons. 
[SHANKS  takes  baby  to  house.] 

MRS.  BATES.     What's  Milt  so  downcast  about? 

MA.     The  army  has  took  our  team.     [Points  off  left.] 

MRS.  BATES.     Oh  —  there  comes  Lem  Tollard. 

MA  [going'].  Yes.  Another  rebel  sympathizer.  Will  you 
come  inside? 

MRS.  BATES.  No;  I'll  go  home  and  fix  this  coat  if  I  kin. 
[Exit  MA  left  in  house.  LEM  TOLLARD  enters  left  at  back. 
He  is  a  tough  Illinois  farmer  of  1861,  with  scowl  and  under- 
]aw,  easily  dressed  and  about  thirty-eight  years  old.  MRS. 
BATES,  going,  looks  at  him.  He  touches  his  hat.  MRS. 
BATES  exits.  LEM  looks  cautiously  over  fence  and  comes  into 
yard;  reconnoiters  house  and  whistles  signal  toward  porch. 
Evidently  gets  attention  inside  and  beckons.  SHANKS  comes 
from  house,  sees  LEM,  looks  back  into  house,  meets  LEM  left 
center.] 

SHANKS.     What'd  you  find  out? 

LEM.  These  fellers  air  gonta  march  in  a  day  or  two,  from 
the  looks  o'  things! 

SHANKS.    Where  to? 

LEM.  Missouri,  I'd  say.  That  visitin'  member  of  our 
Lodge  that's  here  from  Indiana  understands  telegraphin'  —  kin 
read  it  by  ear. 

SHANKS.     By  ear? 

LEM.  You  bet!  He  kin  jest  lean  against  a  depot  an'  tell 
nearly  every  word  the  machine's  a  sayin*.  He  picked  up 
"  Camp  Jackson  "  —  and  "  St.  Louis  "  —  and  "  Government 
troops  from  Quincy  "  goin'  to  the  Arsenal  there.  in  St.  Louis. 
Company  from  here  is  goin'  to  Quincy.  Now,  what's  our 


move 


SHANKS.     Why  do  we  have  to  do  anything? 
LEM.     Why,  Camp  Jackson's  our  people. 
SHANKS.     Air  they? 
LEM.    Yes,  at  St.  Louis. 


THE  COPPERHEAD  105 

SHANKS.  Why,  then,  we  oughta  git  word  to  'em,  I  sup 
pose — but,  jeemunently — how? 

LEM.  I've  been  to  St.  Louis  in  my  time,  with  hides  and 
taller. 

SHANKS.     Then  you're  the  man  to  go,  I'd  say. 

LEM.  I'm  ready  to  go,  but  it  entitles  me  to  railroad  tickets 
and  my  keep  while  I'm  away. 

SHANKS.     Naturally. 

LEM.  An'  no  use  callin'  a  meetin'  if  you  gimme  your  word 
fur  it  that  the  circle  makes  it  up  to  me  when  I  git  back. 

SHANKS.     I  give  you  my  word  fur  it,  Lem. 

LEM.  All  right.  [Starts  off;  stops;  returns.']  An'  see 
here,  Milt,  your  boy  Joe — 

SHANKS.     What  about  him? 

LEM.  He's  still  drillin'  with  Newt  Gillespie's  outfit — like 
I  said  he  was. 

SHANKS.  Why  not,  if  it  amuses  him?  No  guns,  and 
Joe's  only  sixteen  and  a  little  over. 

LEM.     Every  man  or  boy  we  keep  out  of  it,  the  better. 

SHANKS.  Besides,  Joe's  drillin'  and  cheerin'  keeps  suspicion 
off  o'  me.  Lord,  his  mother's  sewin'  uniforms  for  Hardy's 
Company!  What  do  we  care? 

LEM  [not  convinced].  You  may  be  right.  [Pause.]  An' 
if  any  suspicion  falls  on  me  fur  this  St.  Louis  trip,  you're 
my  witness  that  I  went  there  on  business  o'  some  kind  fur 
you. 

SHANKS.  You  did.  There's  a  mule  auction  there,  I've 
heard. 

LEM.     There  is — Tenth  and  Biddle  Street. 

SHANKS.  Well,  how's  this?  These  troops  has  took  my 
team,  and  you  went  there  to  buy  another  team  fur  me? 

LEM.     Why  didn't  I  get  'em? 

SHANKS.  The  army's  buyin'  'em.  That's  a  good  reason. 
Price  went  up.  Everything  is  goin'  up,  ain't  it? 

LEM  [pause].  I'll  write  you  a  letter  about  'em — through 
the  post-office — savin'  that,  and  you  keep  it. 

SHANKS.     'Nuf  said.     [Enter  MA.] 

MA  [on  porch}.     Well,  Lem,  what  is  it? 

LEM.     Good-mornin'. 

MA.  The  President's  called  fur  seventy-five  thousand  vol 
unteers.  Did  you  see  it? 


io6  THE  COPPERHEAD 

LEM.     I'm  thirty-eight  years  old. 

MA.     So's  Captain  Hardy. 

LEM  [fishing].     And  my  insteps  ain't  strong. 

MA.     Your  insteps  air  all  right,  ain't  they,  Milt? 

SHANKS.  They  air,  thank  Gawd,  but  not  fur  any  wwholy 
cause  like  an  army  against  our  own  countrymen. 

MA  [to  LEM].  I  see  you're  wearin'  one  o'  them  copper 
heads  in  yer  button-hole,  too. 

LEM  [regarding  button].  The  Goddess  of  Liberty — 
yes. 

MA.  Liberty,  is  it?  I  notice  that  every  brute  that's  ever 
turned  a  dog  loose  after  a  poor  black  slave  runnin'  past  here 
from  the  Ohio  River,  is  wearin'  one  of  'em. 

SHANKS.     Oh,  politics  ain't  fur  women,  ma! 

MA.  They  always  have  been  in  this  house  until  Fort  Sum- 
ter  was  fired  on — an'  I  never  looked  for  you  to  eat  yer  own 
words,  Milt  Shanks. 

SHANKS.  I  ain't  eatin'  my  words.  I'm  fur  peace,  that's 
all — peace.  I've  got  two  children  ter  support. 

MA.  Ye  hed  one  when  the  Mexican  War  broke  out,  an' 
yer  was  devil  bent  to  go  to  that. 

SHANKS.  Mexicans  is  different — but  not  our  own  coun 
trymen.  [Turns.]  Don't  mind  her,  Lem. 

MA.  An'  as  fur  protectin'  yer  children,  that's  what  I'm 
askin'  yer  ter  do.  It's  the  shame  of  it  that's  drivin'  Joey  into 
the  volunteers — the  shame  of  it. 

LEM  [contradicting].  No,  no.  Just  boys'  ways,  Mrs. 
Shanks. 

SHANKS.     They  don't  want  men  as  old  as  us. 

MA.  Then  why  don't  you  say  jes'  that,  and  stop  yer  peace 
hypocrisy  and  throw  away  that  copperhead  off  o'  yer  button 
hole? 

LEM.  That  shows  we're  united,  too,  Mrs.  Shanks.  The 
lovers  of  liberty  air  united. 

MA.  We  understand  round  here  that  you  owned  a  nigger 
yerself  'fore  you  left  Kentucky. 

LEM.  In  Kentucky  everybody  owned  'em  'at  could  afford 
it. 

MA.     That's  a  lie,  Lem  Tollard. 

SHANKS.     Ma,  how  kin  you  know? 

MA.     I've  heard  Abraham  Lincoln  say  it  was.     [To  LEM.] 


THE  COPPERHEAD  107 

An'  I  call  you  mighty  poor  company,  even  fur  Milt  Shanks. 
[Enter  GILLESPIE  and  ANDREWS,  a  preacher.  Both  carry 
some  new  uniforms.] 

GILLESPIE.     Sorry  to  rush  you,  Mrs.  Shanks — 

MA.  What  is  it,  Mr.  Gillespie?  Good  afternoon,  Brother 
Andrews. 

ANDREWS.     Sister  Shanks. 

GILLESPIE.     Got  to  have  everything  that's  finished. 

ANDREWS.     The  Company  has  orders  to  march. 

MA.  Thank  God  that  temptation's  goin'  away  from  Joey 
at  last.  They're  done,  Newt.  Only  bastin'  threads  to  take 
out.  [Exit.'] 

GILLESPIE.  Don't  stop  fur  that.  Any  feller  they  fit  kin 
pick  out  the  threads. 

SHANKS.     Where  air  you  goin'? 

GILLESPIE.  What  the  hell's  that  to  you?  Excuse  me, 
Brother  Andrews.  [To  SHANKS.]  Git  a  gun  an'  fall  in, 
like  you  oughta,  and  you'll  find  out. 

LEM.     Don't  answer  him,   Milt.     [Exit.] 

ANDREWS.  The  military  men  are  not  permitted  to  give 
information  of  that  character,  Mr.  Shanks. 

GILLESPIE.  He  knows  that  well  enough — and  we  wouldn't 
give  it  to  the  enemy  if  we  did.  [Reenter  MA  with  two  suits 
of  blue.] 

MA  [handing  clothes].  Nothin'  to  brag  on,  Newt,  fur 
looks — but  they  won't  blow  apart. 

GILLESPIE.  You  oughta  have  a  right  ter  wear  'em  yerself, 
'stead  o'  sech  as  him. 

MA.  That  spot'll  wash  out.  It's  only  a  little  curdled 
milk — stummick  teeth.  I  had  to  take  her  up  a  while  when  I 
was  sewin'  last  night. 

GILLESPIE.  Fur  stummick  teeth  and  curdlin',  my  woman 
gives  'em  lime  water.  [Enter  HARDY.] 

HARDY.     Make  haste,  Gillespie. 

GILLESPIE  [salutes].  Jest  foldin'  'em,  Captain.  Come  on, 
Brother  Andrews. 

ANDREWS  [to  HARDY].  I'd  go  with  you,  Captain,  if  I 
were  young  enough. 

HARDY.  I'm  sure  you  would,  sir.  [To  GILLESPIE.] 
Where's  the  rest  of  your  squad? 

GILLESPIE.    All  over  town. 


io8  THE  COPPERHEAD 

ANDREWS.  Twenty  ladies  been  sewiri'.  [GILLESPIE  sa 
lutes.  Exit  with  clothes,  on  run.  ANDREWS  follows.] 

HARDY.     Thank  you,   Mrs.  Shanks. 

MA.     God  bless  you,  Tom  Hardy! 

HARDY  [pauses  and  pleads].     Come  on,  Milt. 

SHANKS.     'Tain't  possible,  Tom.     [HARDY  looks  at  MA.] 

MA.  I've  told  him  I'd  git  on — Joey's  as  good  at  sixteen 
as  a  man  twenty-one.  [The  baby  cries  off  right.  Exit  MA.] 

HARDY.     You  wanted  to  go  with  me  in  '47. 

SHANKS.     That  was  different,  Tom. 

HARDY.  And  you  wanted  to  go  to  West  Point  when  I 
did. 

SHANKS.    Yes — 

HARDY.  I  wish  you  had  gone.  [Pause.]  Did  you  hear 
Colonel  Grant  muster  in  our  Company  last  week? 

SHANKS  [shakes  head].     I  wasn't  there. 

HARDY.  He  said  a  dead  rebel  would  be  envied  compared 
to  the  man  on  the  Northern  side  who  stayed  home  and  gave 
comfort  to  the  enemy.  [Pause.]  They  tell  me,  Milt,  you've 
been  making  that  mistake  yourself — comfort  to  the  enemy. 

SHANKS.     I  don't  know  as  I  have. 

HARDY.     That  button  shows  it. 

SHANKS.  It  stands  fur  peace  and  the  liberty  our  fathers 
won. 

HARDY.     How  did  our  fathers  win  their  liberty? 

SHANKS.     Why — fightin'. 

HARDY.  Exactly!  And  the  fight  isn't  over.  Come  on! 
Remember  who's  calling — our  own  candidate — our  own  neigh 
bor — our  own  friend — Lincoln. 

SHANKS.  Lincoln  wasn't  fur  war  when  we  elected  him. 
He's  lettin'  'em  make  him  jest  an  instrument  in  the  devil's 
hands.  [Enter  MA  ivith  baby.] 

HARDY  [hand  to  SHANKS'  throat].  Stop!  [Pause.]  I'd 
shoot  another  man  that  said  that.  [MA  exclaims.  Pause.] 
I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Shanks — sorry. 

MA  [pause].     I'm  sorry,  Captain.     [Enter  JOEY.] 

JOEY.     Mother — mother — 

MA.     Well,  Joey? 

JOEY.     You  gave  Newt  Gillespie  my  uniform. 

MA.     'Twasn't  yours,  dear. 

JOEY.     Why,  you  made  it  to  fit  me — didn't  you? 


THE  COPPERHEAD  109 

MA.     I  tried  it  on  you,  boy,  to  get  it  straight;  that's  all. 

JOEY.  Captain  Hardy,  'tain't  fair!  I'm  as  good  in  the  drill 
as  any  man  in  your  company. 

HARDY.     You're  only  sixteen,  Joe. 

JOEY.  Coin'  on  seventeen.  I'm  in  the  same  class  at  school 
with  Sam  Perley  and  Jim  Evers  and  Henry  Bates.  They're 
goin'.  /  cut  wood  and  swing  a  scythe  and  lift  a  bag  of  oats 
with  any  of  'em. 

HARDY.  Well,  there'll  still  be  wood  to  cut,  Joey,  and 
farm  work  to  do  back  here. 

JOEY.     And  the  uniform  fits  me — my  own  mother  made  it. 

MA.     For  the  army,  Joey — not  for  you. 

JOEY.  Why,  mother,  you  put  yer  hands  on  my  face  and 
said:  "Don't  ever  disgrace  it,  boy." 

MA.     Yes — like  I'd  say  fur  the  flag.     [HARDY  starts.] 

JOEY.  Don't  go,  Captain.  If  she  says  yes?  Say  yes, 
mother — say  yes! 

MA.  Why,  Joey,  me  and  Elsie  needs  somebody.  I  ain't 
despaired  yit  of  yer  father  goin'. 

JOEY.  Why —  [Pause.']  Has  he  changed  his  mind? 
[Pause.]  Dad? 

SHANKS  [pause].  I  can't  go — I  can't — knowin'  everything 
as  I  do. 

HARDY  [to  MA].  Good-by.  [Goes  quickly.  JOEY  throws 
himself  on  the  well  curb  in  tears.  After  a  pause  MA  walks 
to  him  and  puts  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  JOEY  turns  at  her 
touch  and  buries  his  face  in  her  lap  as  he  kneels.  With  the 
baby  in  her  armsf  the  three  make  an  effective  group] 

MA  [pause].  Joey — Joey —  [The  boy  looks  up]  I  used 
ter  carry  you  this  way,  dearie. 

JOEY  [rising].  Well,  I  kud  carry  you,  now.  [Reenter 
GRANDMA,  without  her  pipe] 

MA.     That's  what  I'm  askin'  you  ter  do,  son. 

JOEY.  But  not  tied  ter  yer  apron-strings,  ma.  All  the 
fellers  that  air  goin'  air  doin'  it  fur  their  folks  at  home — de- 
fendin'  them. 

GRANDMA.  Gimme  that  child.  Yer  plumb  tuckered  out. 
[Takes  baby] 

MA.     Kain't  you  say  nothin',  Milt  Shanks? 

SHANKS.  I'm  fur  peace.  I've  said  that  time  and  agin. 
Joey's  heere/.  me.  [Exit  GRANDMA  with  baby  to  house.] 


no  THE  COPPERHEAD 

JOEY.     /  ain't  fur  peace  when  they're  shootin'  at  the  flag! 

SHANKS.  But  I  understand  a  boy's  feelin's,  too.  When  I 
was  sixteen,  I'd  o'  felt  jest  the  way  Joey  does. 

MA.     Yer  urgin'  him  to  go? 

SHANKS.  No,  by  God,  I  ain't  urgin'  him!  He  don't 
seem  ter  need  it.  I  only  say  it's  natural,  and  as  long  as  I 
live —  [Pause.]  I'll  remember  that  my  boy —  [Pause  and 
control. 1  I'll  remember  he  was  natural  and  manful. 

JOEY.     Kain't  yer  see  /  got  ter  do  it? 

MA.     Yer  only  sixteen,  Joey. 

JOEY.     I'm  strong  as  twenty  an'  a  blamed  sight  quicker. 

MA.     Yer  might  git  wounded. 

JOEY.  I  been  wounded  by  a  pitchfork — and  Perley's  dog  bit 
me.  I  ff  heal  up  "  quicker'n  a  feller  o'  twenty ! 

MA.  Some  boys  will  git  killed,  Joey.  I  kain't  let  you  go 
at  sixteen. 

JOEY.  If  I  hang  round  till  I'm  older,  you'll  only  git  fonder 
of  me,  an*  if  a  feller  is  gona  be  killed,  what's  the  difference 
sixteen  or  twenty? 

MA  [to  SHANKS].  Yer  see  how  he's  a-strainin'  ter  git  away, 
Milt.  I  ain't  sendm  either  of  yer —  [To  JOEY.]  But  you 
won't  go,  Joey,  if  yer  father  goes,  will  you?  \Watches 
SHANKS  anxiously.] 

JOEY.     We  couldn't  both  leave  you  and  Elsie,  of  course. 

MA.     There,   Milt.     [SHANKS  shakes  head.] 

JOEY  [in  a  burst].  God  A'mighty,  ma,  let  me  have  one  par 
ent  I  kin  look  up  to!  Quick!  Please,  'cause  some  other  fel- 
ler'll  git  my  uniform  in  a  minute. 

MA.  It's  big  enough  fer  yer  father.  You  git  it — and  we'll 
see  about  who  goes  with  the  Company. 

JOEY.  Aha!  Bully!  [Exit;  runs  off  back  of  house.  MA 
watches  him  out  of  sight,  her  hand  to  her  lips.  Then  turns.] 

MA.  I  know  Captain  Hardy  will  send  him  back,  an'  then 
— then  you'll  jest  hev  ter  take  his  place,  Milt. 

SHANKS.  God  bless  you,  ma.  Yer  like  the  wonderful 
women  that  put  the  stars  in  the  flag,  an'  I  ain't  worthy  ter 
undo  the  latchets  o'  yer  shoes — but  I  kain't  go  inter  this 
army. 

MA.  "  The  stars  in  the  flag!  "  [Pause.]  I  stud  here  by 
this  well  with  my  arms  round  yer  neck,  Milt,  when  Joey  was 
only  three — holdin'  yer  back  that  time  from  Mexu:o,  and  yer 


\ 


THE  COPPERHEAD  in 

talked  about  "  the  stars  in  the  flag "  then.  I  thought  you 
wuz  the  handsomest  thing  in  the  whole  State  of  Illinois  and 
I  prayed  God  to  make  our  boy  hev  some  of  your  spirit  in 
stead  of  mine  when  he  growed  up  to  be  a  man. 

SHANKS.  Sorry  I  talked  about  'em  agin — but  it's  kind  o' 
the  same  subject,  after  all. 

MA.  We  ain't  hed  riches,  and  I've  hed  some  sickness,  but 
I've  kind  o'  lived  on  my  respect  and  trust  in  you,  Milt.  Don't 
tell  me  that  everything  I  loved  you  fur  is  dead  in  you. 

SHANKS.     I've  loved  yer,  too,  Martha! 

MA.     I  think  you  hev. 

SHANKS.     An'  I  still  do. 

MA.     Well,  I'm  tryin',  Milt. 

SHANKS.  I  still  do.  Fur  time  and  eternity  [pause]  an' 
without  wantin'  ter  harp  on  the  same  subject — jest  as  sure 
as  the  stars  air  in  the  flag,  you'll  look  inter  my  face  some  time, 
an'  admit  I  was  right. 

MA.  Never — never!  [Exit  to  house.  SHANKS  lifts  his 
hands  to  Heaven  in  protest,  pulls  himself  together  and  cleans 
up  the  charcoal  furnace  outfit.  Enter  LEM  quickly.] 

LEM.    Milt! 

SHANKS.     Hello! 

LEM  [excited].  They're  gonta  march  to-day — not  to-mor 
row. 

SHANKS.    Air  they? 

LEM.  Yes.  I  got  to  git  out  on  to-night's  train  fur  St. 
Louis. 

SHANKS.     I  'spose  yer  hev — really. 

LEM.  No  chance  to  see  anybody.  How  much  money  you 
got  on  you? 

SHANKS  [counting],     I'll  see.     Six  bits. 

LEM.  Great  Scott!  Well,  give  it  to  me.  If  you  can 
scrape  up  any  more,  bring  it  to  me  at  the  depot.  [Starts; 
stops.]  An'  remember  yer  obligation — "  a  brother  Knight's 
wife,  or  parents,  or  any  dependent  on  him."  [Holds  up  right 
hand  as  taking  oath.] 

SHANKS  [with  same  sign] .     "  Or  any  dependent  on  him," 

LEM.     Look  in  at  my  place  now  and  agin. 

SHANKS.     Yes — I  will. 

LEM.  Here's  Gillespie,  runnin'.  I  told  you!  [Enter. 
GILLESPIE  07i  a  run.] 


ii2  THE  COPPERHEAD 

GILLESPIE.     Any  ammunition  here? 

SHANKS.     Ammunition?     [Exit  LEM  significantly.'] 

GILLESPIE.  Minnie  balls.  Your  Joey  was  moldin'  'em. 
[Enter  ANDREWS,  evidently  following  GILLESPIE.] 

SHANKS.  Oh,  Mrs.  Perley  took  them.  [Calls.]  Mrs. 
Perley — Mrs.  Perley! 

GILLESPIE.     Where  to? 

SHANKS.     She'll  tell  you.     [Enter  GRANDMA.] 

GRANDMA.    What  is  it? 

GILLESPIE.     Minnie  balls — Joe  Shanks  was  makin'. 

GRANDMA.  Why,  you  tarnation  idiot — I  gave  'em  to  you 
yerself ! 

GILLESPIE.    When  ? 

GRANDMA.     In  that  horse  bucket. 

GILLESPIE  [going].  Hell's  bells!  I  packed  'em  with  the 
harness.  [Exit.~\ 

GRANDMA  [calling  after].  Two  bullet  molds  layin'  on  top 
of  'em.  [Going.]  Ye'd  think  the  rebels  was  ambushin'  'em. 
[Exit  after  GILLESPIE.] 

SHANKS.     They're  gettin'  ready. 

ANDREWS.     Yes. 

SHANKS.  Brother  Andrews — see  here.  [Comes  down  ex 
citedly  and  with  caution.]  You  brought  me  a  letter  in  March. 

ANDREWS.    Yes,  Milt. 

SHANKS  [looks  off  after  LEM].  Callin'  me — East  I  [AN 
DREWS  nods]  I  don't  know  if  you  guessed  what  was  wanted 
of  me,  and  my  wife  ain't — nur  Joey,  nur  anybody.  Yer 
mustn't  hint  it  if  you  do — not  even  to  me.  [Pause.  AN 
DREWS  nods]  But  I  was  told  down  there  that,  in  a  pinch,  I 
could  turn  ter  you,  and  you'd  take  orders  from  me.  [AN 
DREWS  nods]  Lem  Tollard's  gittin'  the  evenin'  train  fur  St. 
Louis — ter  give  warnin'  ter  rebel  troops  there  in  Camp  Jackson, 
that  Union  reinforcements  is  comin'.  You  kin  beat  him  by 
buggy  or  horseback  to  Mattoon  and  the  regular  Express  from 
there  on. 

ANDREWS.     I  understand. 

SHANKS.  At  the  St.  Louis  Arsenal,  the  Union  troops  air 
under  Captain  Lyon — L-y-o-n.  Git  ter  him  personal.  _  He'll 
know  what  ter  do — whether  ter  move  faster  hisself  or  jes'  ter 
head  off  Lem. 

ANDREWS.     So  I  say  you  told  me? 


THE  COPPERHEAD  113 

SHANKS  [nods].  A  farmer  by  the  name  of  Shanks.  [Im- 
pressively.  A  bugle  blows  assembly .] 

ANDREWS.  I'll  follow  instructions  minutely.  [Reenter 
SUE.] 

SUE.     Mr.  Shanks— Mr.  Shanks! 

SHANKS  [turning].     Yes,  Sue. 

SUE.     Joey  wants  his  other  shirt  and  a  pair  of  sox. 

SHANKS.     What's  the  matter? 

SUE.  The  Company's  going.  He's  going  with  'em. 
[ANDREWS  exits.'} 

SHANKS.  His  shirt  and  sox.  Ma — ma!  [Anxiously 
toward  house.  Reenter  GRANDMA.  A  drum  heard  in  dis 
tance.  SHANKS  stops  and  listens.'] 

SUE.     That's  them. 

GRANDMA  [heroically].  We're  comin',  Father  Abraham, 
a  hundred  thousand  strong. 

SHANKS.  God  A'mighty!  [Exit.  SUE  runs  to  fence. 
Enter  MRS.  BATES.] 

MRS.  BATES.     Where's  Mrs.  Shanks? 

SUE.     Inside.     I've  told  'em,  Mrs.  Bates. 

MRS.  BATES.  My  Henry's  in  the  Company,  and  they're 
goin'  without  supper.  [Enter  MA.] 

MA.     They're  just  drillin',   ain't  they? 

SUE.  No'm,  they're  really  going,  Mrs.  Shanks.  Joey  sent 
me.  [Enter  SHANKS  with  small  bundle.] 

MRS.  BATES.  Here  they  come.  [Fife  and  drum  effect, 
increasing  with  scene  until  it  finishes  in  sonff.] 

MA.     Where's  Joey?     He  can't  be  with  'em! 

SUE.  I  can  see  him,  Mrs.  Shanks.  I  see  Joey.  He's  with 
'em.  [SHANKS  goes  into  road  and  looks.  MA  comes  down 
right f  excitedly.] 

MA.     God!     Dear  God!     [Raises  her  hands.] 

GRANDMA  [with  her].  Yer  his  mother.  Don't  fergit  that. 
Let  him  see  you  givin'  courage  to  him  as  he  goes  by. 
[SHANKS  comes  down  from  road  and  gives  SUE  the  bundle  for 
JOEY;  then  exit  left  rather  haunted.  Chorus  of  approaching 
Company  breaks  into  "John  Brown's  Body/']  You  nursed 
him  an'  you  brought  him  into  the  world.  Come,  keep  up  his 
heart!  [Takes  MA  up.  GRANDMA  goes  into  road  and  meets 
Company.  The  women  and  SUE  indicate  approach  of  Com 
pany.  The  Company,  in  rather  irregular  uniforms,  swings  by, 


ii4  THE  COPPERHEAD 

singing;  GRANDMA  waves  her  apron,  leading  them  In  an  in 
spired  and  symbolic  manner.  SHANKS  sneaks  on  above  well 
and  hides  in  bushes.  Presently  JOEY  passes;  he  slips  from  line 
a  moment  and  kisses  MA,  then  runs  and  catches  up  his  place. 
MA  leans  against  the  fence  and  the  women  fan  her.  The  scene 
may  be  enlivened  by  old  men  and  children  trailers.] 


[CURTAIN  ON  SONG.] 


ACT  II 

SCENE 

Same  set  as  Act  One,  but  over  two  years  later.  A  lilac  bush 
at  upper  corner  of  house  is  two  years  larger  but  with 
out  bloom.  The  month  is  July.  The  back  drop  shows 
same  topography  as  Act  One  but  the  field  is  of  ripening 
corn.  On  the  post  of  the  porch  a  cardboard  shield  of  the 
17.  S.  Arms  is  tacked  in  lieu  of  a  flag. 

TIME 
Twilight,  fading  into  moonlight;  Friday,  July  3,  1863. 

DISCOVERED 

MA  ironing  by  the  charcoal  furnace.  Her  ironing  board  is 
laid  on  the  backs  of  two  kitchen  chairs.  There  is  a  basket 
of  damp  linen  and  a  pile  of  ironed  nearly  dry.  The  baby 
ELSIE,  now  some  three  years  old,  is  on  an  improvised  bed 
of  chairs,  on  porch,  with  a  piece  of  "  quadrille  "  mosquito 
net  over  her.  GRANDMA  sits  by  knitting  sox. 

MA.     About  time  fur  her  medicine,  ain't  it? 

GRANDMA.     I'll  see. 

MA.  You  set  still;  I'll  see.  [Steps  to  door.]  Yes — after 
time. 

GRANDMA.  I'll  give  it  to  her.  [Takes  up  from  floor  a 
tumbler  covered  with  a  plate,  holding  a  spoon.] 

MA  [bending  over  bed].  How  is  mammy's  precious  now? 
Don't  wake  up,  darling — Grandma  Perley's  just  gonta  give 
it  a  nice  spoonful  of  the  cool  water — 

GRANDMA.  Open  mouggy —  [Gives  medicine]  The  an 
gel! 

"5 


ii6  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MA.  Now,  lay  down,  dear,  and  mammy'll  make  the  beau 
tiful  house  again.  Keep  out  the  nasty  flies  and  skeeters. 
[Fixes  net.] 

GRANDMA.     Seems  easier. 

MA  [resuming  work].     Yes. 

GRANDMA.  Beats  me;  six  little  sugar  pills  melted  in  a 
tumbler  o'  water —  [Shakes  head.] 

MA.     There's  sumpin    about  'em. 

GRANDMA.     Don't  allow  'em  in  the  army. 

MA.  Might  be  better  if  they  did.  I  hear  they're  dyin' 
like  flies  in  the  hospitals,  • 

GRANDMA.  Kain't  believe  all  we  hear,  Martha.  They  said 
Stonewall  Jackson  was  killed  early  in  May. 

MA.     Well,  wasn't  he? 

GRANDMA.  I  doubt  it.  Six  weeks  has  gone  by  and  Joe 
Hooker  has  bed  to  fall  back;  looks  to  me  like  that  yarn  about 
Jackson  was  jest  to  throw  our  folks  off  their  guard — and 
"  shot  by  his  own  men." 

MA.     May  be — 

GRANDMA.  Sounds  fishy.  An*  where's  all  the  help  we  was 
gonta  git  from  the  four  million  niggers? — 'mancipation's  been 
out  six  months. 

MA.  Maybe  the  niggers  didn't  git  it — most  of  'em.  Kain't 
read,  an'  the  Rebs  wouldn't  tell  'em,  would  they  ? 

GRANDMA.  P'raps  not —  [pause]  and  Grant!  Why  ain't 
he  stirrin'  hisself?  Sometimes  I  think  them  yarns  about  his 
drinkin's  more  truth  than  poetry.  Lord — if  I'd  only  been  a 
man! 

MA.  Well,  it's  a  siege,  Joey  says  in  his  letters — if  a  man's 
ever  been  a  drinkin'  man,  seems  ter  me  that'd  drive  him  to  it 
agin — jest  settin'  an*  settin'  outside  the  city — waitin'  an'  waitin' 
— day  in — day  out — even  hotter'n  this  place,  too. 

GRANDMA.     Lord  pity  'em! 

MA.     'Cause   that's   the   real  South — Vicksburg   is. 

GRANDMA.  Oughta  be  some  breeze  from  the  river,  I'd 
think. 

MA.     Joey  don't  speak  of  it. 

GRANDMA.     How  long's  it  been  fur  Joey? 

MA.  Two  years  and  two  months  since  he  marched  past 
that  gate. 

GRANDMA.     I  mean  at  Vicksburg? 


THE  COPPERHEAD  117 

MA.  Oh!  'Bout  six  weeks  now — since  the  siege  begun. 
[Pause;  going.']  I  kin  tell  exactly  by  his  letters.  [Exit] 

GRANDMA.  Six  weeks  is  near  enough.  [Calls.]  Lord! 
I  ain't  timin'  bread  in  the  oven  by  it.  [MA  returns  with 
bunch  of  letters  from  the  house.] 

MA.  I  think  this  is  the  one.  [Opens  letter.  Reads  in 
bitter  silence  a  moment.] 

GRANDMA  [pause].     What's  the  matter  now? 

MA  [pause;  shakes  head].     'Bout  his  father. 

GRANDMA.    Well,  don't  let's  git  on  that  subject  agin. 

MA  [studying  letter  and  biting  lip].  When  the  news  of  it 
got  into  the  army — some  o'  the  men  from  here  had  papers  with 
the  trial  in  'em —  [Looks  up  in  agony]  Joey's  father!  My 
baby's  father — 

GRANDMA.  Evil  company  kin  bring  any  man  down,  but 
I'll  stake  my  hope  o'  salvation  that  Milt  Shanks  didn't  do  the 
murder. 

MA.  Not  his  fault  if  he  didn't.  He'd  fired  two  shots — 
his  revolver  showed  that  at  the  trial. 

GRANDMA.  I  don't  know.  They  didn't  hang  him — at  any 
rate. 

MA.  What  comfort  kin  Joey  git  from  that?  The  verdict 
was  hangin',  and  they'd  a  hung  him  only  the  governor  com 
mitted  all  o'  their  sentences  ter  life  in  the  penitentiary — life — 
life — in  the  penitentiary.  He  knowed  about  it  comin'  from 
day  to  day — but  it  was  a  thunderbolt  to  Joey.  He  says — 
[Reads]  "If  I  could  jes'  put  my  arms  around  you, 


mammy." 


GRANDMA  [going  to  her].  Now,  quit  that,  Martha.  You 
started  to  find  out  when  Vicksburg  commenced.  Lord,  we've 
all  got  troubles. 

MA  [bracing  up].  I  know —  [With  other  letter]  It's  a 
lead  pencil,  and  I  can't  make  out  the  writin'  now — it's  gittin* 
so  dark,  besides. 

GRANDMA.     An'  yer  tuckered  out  with  yer  ironin'. 

MA.  Only  my  back — it'll  ease  up  when  I  lay  down. 
[Enter  MRS.  BATES  and  SUE  to  back  of  fence] 

MRS.  BATES  [calling].  Good  evening.  [MA  runs  to  bed 
and  sings  lullaby — "  Old  Dog  Tray!'] 

GRANDMA  [signals  silence].    The  child's  asleep. 

MRS.  BATES.     Sorry. 


n8  THE  COPPERHEAD 

GRANDMA.  All  right,  I  guess.  {Enter  MRS.  BATES  to 
yard.  Enter  SUE;  she  carries  a  tin  lantern,  unlighted.] 

MRS.  BATES.  I  brought  some  rennet  fur  her.  [MA  nods 
thanks.] 

GRANDMA.    That's  good. 

SUE.     We're  goin'  down  to  the  church. 

GRANDMA.    Why  ? 

MRS.  BATES.     Fixin'  the  booths  fur  to-morrow. 

MA  [joining  them].  I'm  so  sorry  I  can't  go  along  and 
help. 

MRS.  BATES.     Lord  knows  you  got  yer  hands  full. 

GRANDMA.     Ain't  hed  her  supper. 

MRS.  BATES.    What! 

MA.     It's  too  hot  fur  supper. 

GRANDMA  [to  MA],    Where's  yer  tea  kettle? 

MA.     I've  got  cold  tea. 

SUE.     Let  me  git  it,  Mrs.  Shanks. 

MA.     It's  in  the  well — I'll  get  some  glasses.     [Starts.] 

GRANDMA.  You'll  set  still.  I'll  git  the  glasses.  [Puts 
her  in  chair.  Exit.  SUE  goes  to  well.  A  little  cry  from  the 
bed.] 

MA  [resigned].     I  guess  she's  waking.     [Gets  ELSIE.] 

SUE.     Did  we  wake  her,  do  you  'spose? 

MA.  She's  slept  a  good  while,  anyway.  [Reenter  GRAND 
MA  with  glasses,  glass  sugar  bowl,  brown  sugar  and  spoons.] 

MA.  Come,  dearie,  Auntie  Bates  brought  Elsie,  oh, 
such  good  supper.  Mother'll  hold  her  little  girl  on  her  lap 
while  she  eats  it.  [MA  sits  at  ironing  board  and  feeds  ELSIE. 
MRS.  BATES  stands.  SUE  brings  tea  from  well.] 

GRANDMA  [slyly  indicating  ELSIE].  It's  a  good  plan  to 
change  the  subject  now — we  git  on  better  when  you  don't 
notice  us —  How  many  booths  you  got?  [Pours  tea.] 

MRS.  BATES.     Oh,  a  dozen,  I  should  think. 

SUE.  If  we  can  get  dolls  enough  by  to-morrow  we're  going 
to  have  the  old  woman  that  lived  in  a  shoe. 

GRANDMA.     Have  what? 

MRS.  BATES  The  S'Louis  papers  say  at  their  fair  Nellie 
Grant,  the  Gineral's  little  dotter  was  the  old  woman — a  shoe 
as  big  as  Elsie's  bed  for  her  house  and  dozens  of  dolls  all  over 
it. 

GRANDMA.     How  old's  Grant's  dotter? 


THE  COPPERHEAD  119 

MRS.  BATES.     Only  three  or  four. 

GRANDMA.  Well,  don't  that  beat  the  Dutch.  I'll  bet  it 
took  like  hot  cakes. 

MA  [coaxingly].  Not  here,  dearie — that's  way  off  where 
the  sun  goes  to  bed  and  hot  cakes  ain't  near  so  nice  as  Auntie 
Bates'  custard. 

GRANDMA.  Little  pitchers  have  big  ears.  [Enter  ANDREWS 
from  left  at  back.] 

MA.     There's  Brother  Andrews. 

GRANDMA.     A  minute  later'n  he'd  a  caught  me  smokin'. 

MRS.  BATES.     Good  evening. 

ANDREWS.     Good  evening — may  I  come  in? 

MA.  Of  course — yer  always  welcome,  Mr.  Andrews. 
[ANDREWS  enters  yard.  He  shows  elation.] 

ANDREWS.  There's  some  wonderful  news  on  the  telegraph 
wires. 

GRANDMA.     What  is  it?     [MA  and  MRS.  BATES  chorus 

Tell   us  " — and  "  Good  news?  "] 

ANDREWS.     Vicksburg's  surrendered. 
1  f  Hooray! 

I  ,.        ,,     ,  J  Thank  God! 

BAXBS.  \[t°ffether]  }  <*}.  Mr-  Andrews!  [T*. 
J  \^twitight  goes  into  moonlight.] 

GRANDMA.     God  bless  ole  Grant. 

ANDREWS  [fervently].     Amen — amen,  Sister  Perley. 

MA  [pause].     And — Joey,  too — 

ANDREWS.  Yes,  Joey,  too,  and  all  our  brave  boys  in  blue. 
The  news  comes  pretty  direct  altho'  it  hasn't  been  officially 
confirmed. 

GRANDMA.  Then  hold  on,  don't  count  your  chickens  too 
soon. 

ANDREWS.     Oh,  I  believe  it's  true — true. 

MRS.  BATES.     Why,  Brother  Andrews? 

ANDREWS.  I've  expected  it  right  along.  The  prisoners  that 
have  been  passing  through  here  give  awful  reports  of  their 
starvation  in  Vicksburg — eating  dogs — anything — and  just  to 
think  of  the  glorious  way  it  comes — to-morrow  will  be  the 
Fourth  of  July  and,  praise  be  to  God,  we've  our  bell  for  the 
meeting  house. 

GRANDMA.     The  bell's  come? 

ANDREWS.     Come?     Why,    it's    up    in    the    belfry,    Sister 


120  THE  COPPERHEAD 

Perley.  Some  folks  want  us  to  ring  it  every  day  for  twelve 
o'clock,  but  we'll  begin  with  the  Sunday  service  and  the 
Wednesday  prayer  meetings,  except,  of  course,  if  this  sur 
render's  true  well  ring  in  the  glorious  Fourth. 

MA.     And  maybe  Joey  kin  git  a  furlough  now. 

ANDREWS.     Of  course  he'll  git  a  furlough. 

MA  [to  ELSIE].  Buvver  Joey  comin'  home  to  Elsie  and 
Muzzer. 

GRANDMA.  The  news  maVes  us  all  fergit  our  manners — 
will  you  hev  some  cold  tea,  Brother  Andrews? 

ANDREWS  [hesitates].     Why — 

SUE.     Right  out  of  the  well — awfully  good. 

ANDREWS.     Thank  you — yes. 

MA.     You're  sure  they'll  let  him  come? 

ANDREWS.  Positive.  After  that  splendid  bravery  in  re 
covering  the  flag. 

GRANDMA.     What  was  that,  Brother  Andrews? 

ANDREWS.  In  one  of  the  Rebels'  attempts  to  break  through 
a  Union  color  bearer  was  struck — Joey  not  only  supported  the 
man  but  kept  the  flag  flying,  too —  Didn't  you  know  of  it? 

MA.  Well,  not  so  fine  as  that — one  o'  Joey's  letters  said — 
"  Jim  Evers  was  hit  with  a  bay'net  while  he  was  carryin'  our 
flag  and  I  was  so  close  to  him  that  I  caught  him  when  he  fell 
over — "  That  jes'  seemed  natural  kindness. 

ANDREWS.     Caught  him!    Why,  Joe  fought  like  a  wildcat. 

SUE.     Joey! 

MRS.  BATES.    Well!      Well! 

GRANDMA.  I'm  ready  to  believe  it,  'cause  at  Fort  Dear 
born  the  dare  devils  was  always  the  boys. 

MA.     Who  told  you  about  it,  Brother  Andrews? 

ANDREWS.  Why — well — it's  a  little  embarrassing — but 
Joey's  father  told  me. 

MA.     His  father? 

GRANDMA  [discounting  it].  Oh!  [MRS.  BATES  and  SUE 
relax  also.] 

MA  [pause],  I  thought  maybe  you'd  got  it  straighter'n 
that.  I  guess  Joey's  letter's  about  right. 

ANDREWS.  And  then  again  when  General  Grant  was  hold 
ing  a  council  of  war  with  Admiral  Porter  on  a  gunboat  in  the 
river — the  Rebels  knew  it  somehow  and  made  a  sally  Joey 
swam  out  to  the  boat  and  carried  the  news  to  Grant*  -Grant 


THE  COPPERHEAD  121 

hustled  back  in  his  skiff  and  rallied  our  men,  who  were  re 
treating.  Grant  sent  for  Joey  the  next  day  and  made  a  world 
of  fuss  over  him —  Yes,  indeed. 

MA.     Did  you  git  all  that  from  his  father,  too? 

ANDREWS.     Well — yes. 

GRANDMA.     'M.     [The  women  again  go  cold.} 

SUE  [pause}.     Well,  Joey's  spunky ,  jest  the  same. 

MRS.  BATES  [pause}.  Sue  and  I  were  just  goin'  down  to 
the  church — are  there  many  there? 

ANDREWS.     Oh,  yes. 

SUE  [suddenly}.  Oh — we've  settled  about  the  rebel  states, 
Mrs.  Shanks. 

GRANDMA.     How ! 

SUE.  Well,  you  see,  I'm  on  the  platform  as  the  Goddess 
of  Liberty — and  I  say  like  this:  [Recites} 

"  Within  the  field  of  blue  a  cloud  I  see, 
The  lightnings  threaten  over  Liberty, 
My  daughters,  come!    Ye  thirteen  brave  I  bore — 
And  come,  ye  younger,  making  thirty-four."     [Breaks.} 


'Cause  there's  thirty-four  states  altogether — then  these  dear 
little  girls — thirteen  walkin'  two  and  two — six  couples  an' 
then  single  that  cute  baby  of  Mrs.  Ransom's,  hardly  bigger'n 
Elsie — she's  Rhode  Island.  Then  the  other  states  accordin'  to 
their  dates  of  admission,  all  with  blue  sashes,  except  the  rebel 
states,  wherever  they  are,  have  red  sashes — and  don't  you  think 
this  is  too  beautiful? — heavy  bands  of  smoke-colored  tulle 
blindfoldin'  their  eyes,  meanin'  error.  These  darlin's!  None 
of  'em  over  ten !  Why,  I  jest  cried  at  rehearsal. 

GRANDMA.  Well — I'm  comin'  to  see  you  if  I'm  able  to 
walk.  You  git  me  a  ticket —  What  are  they,  Mrs.  Bates? 

MRS.  BATES.  Two  bits.  [GRANDMA  gets  shin  plaster 
pocketbook  and  produces  twenty-five  cents.}  Thank  you. 
[Stows  the  paper  in  similar  book.}  Come,  Sue,  we're  awfully 
late  now. 

MA.     Elsie  thanks  you  for  her  supper,  Auntie  Bates. 

MRS.  BATES.  She  shall  have  more  to-morrow —  Good-by. 
[Exits  with  SUE.] 

GRANDMA.    Good-night — 


122  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MA.  Why  do  yo'  'spose  Milt  wanted  ter  make  up  that 
ridiculous  stuff  about  Joey? 

ANDREWS.  It's  true — every  word  of  it.  Grant  wanted  to 
know  what  he  could  do  for  Joey — well,  one  way  and  another 
the  dear  boy  told  him  everything — and  on  Joey's  account  Milt 
has  been  pardoned,  Mrs.  Shanks. 

MA  [pause].     Pardoned! 

ANDREWS.     Pardoned — 

MA  [prompting].  You  mean  from  hangin' — to  penitentiary 
for  life. 

ANDREWS  [shakes  head].  That  was  done  at  the  time  of 
their  conviction — for  the  whole  band — but  Milt  has  been  set 
free. 

MA.     How  do  you  know — who  told  you? 

ANDREWS.     Milt  told  me. 

MA.     In  the  prison? 

ANDREWS.     Here — Milt's  back  in  town. 

MA.     He's  foolin'  you.     He's  broke  out,  ain't  he? 

ANDREWS.  Pardoned — by  the  Governor — I've  seen  his  pa 
pers.  [MA  gives  ELSIE  to  GRANDMA.] 

MA.  In  town?  [ANDREWS  nods.  MA  gets  up — walks 
nervously — stops.  Pause.]  It's  time  Elsie  was  in  bed — will 
you  undress  her,  Mrs.  Perley — I've  got  to  talk  to  Brother 
Andrews  alone. 

GRANDMA.  Come  with  grandma,  darlin',  an'  she'll  tell  you 
about  the  fairies.  [Takes  ELSIE  to  porch.] 

MA.  I'll  bring  her  medicine  when  it's  time.  [Exit 
GRANDMA  with  ELSIE.  Pause.]  Where  is  he — now? 

ANDREWS.     Waiting  for  me. 

MA.     Why? 

ANDREWS.     For  some  message  from — his  wife. 

MA.     Am  I  his  wife  in  the  eyes  o'  Gawd? 

ANDREWS.     Aren't  you?    For  better — for  worse — 

MA.  It's  the  law  in  Illinois  when  a  man's  convicted  of 
murder  it  sets  his  wife  free. 

ANDREWS.     Do  you  ask  to  be  free? 

MA.  I  don't  ask  anything  any  more  fur  myself,  Brother 
Andrews.  [A  candle  is  lighted  inside  the  house.] 

ANDREWS.  Well,  it  won't  help  Milt  to  cast  him  off,  will 
it? 

MA.     I'm  thinkin*  about  the  children-  and — I  ask  you — 


THE  COPPERHEAD  123 

ANDREWS.  If  you  ask  me  —  you'll  send  word  to  your  hus 
band  to  come  home. 

MA  [pause].  Home  —  [Pause.]  What  if  Joey's  here  on 
his  furlough?  What  then? 

ANDREWS.  I  wish  you  might  have  seen  Milt's  face  when 
he  told  me  of  Joey's  bravery. 

MA.  I'm  thinkin'  what  Joey's  face  must  a  been  when  he 
wrote  me  the  letters  after  his  father's  trial  reached  the  army  — 
[Shakes  head.]  I  know  why  Joey  was  willin'  to  swim  out  to 
a  gunboat  —  or  foller  Jim  Evers  and  his  flag  in  the  front  ranks 

—  his  letter  says  —  "Don't  you  never  shed  a  tear  fur  me,  mammy 

—  if  it  —  comes  to  —  me."    My  Gawd  !    Think  of  a  boy  of  nine 
teen  writin'  that-a-way! 

ANDREWS.  He'll  feel  different,  now,  when  he  comes  to 
know  that  his  heroism  gives  his  father  another  chance  at  life  — 
let  me  tell  Milt  to  come  home. 

MA  [pause].     I'll  see  him. 

ANDREWS.    Good. 

MA.  But  I'll  have  to  git  used  to  the  notion  of  it  some— 
before  I'll  say  jest  what  I  will  do  —  one  way  or  the  other  — 
[Pause.]  I'm  gonna  kneel  down  by  my  baby's  bed  an'  ask 
Gawd.  [Distant  gun.  MA  sits  on  the  ironing  chair,  with 
her  head  bent  to  her  knees,  and  buries  her  face  in  her  hands. 
A  country  band  strikes  up  in  the  distance,  "Rally  Round  the 
' 


ANDREWS  [pause].  The  news  is  confirmed,  I  guess.  [Goes 
to  MA.]  Come,  Martha  —  God's  doing  it  all  his  way  —  we 
can't  be  downhearted  about  anything.  [MA  rises  and,  slowly 
nodding,  exits.  ANDREWS  watches  her  off,  then  wipes  his  fore 
head  and  puts  on  his  hat.  He  slowly  turns  to  go.  The  village 
band  still  plays.  He  stops  at  sight  of  somebody.  It  is 
SHANKS.  SHANKS  enters,  left,  behind  fence.  SHANKS  shows 
more  than  three  years'  added  age  —  his  hair  is  perceptibly  gray 
—  and  he  is  more  worn  in  body.] 

SHANKS.    Well? 

ANDREWS.  She'll  see  you.  [SHANKS  crosses  toward  house. 
Pause.] 

SHANKS.     She's  kneelin'  by  the  bed. 

ANDREWS.  One  minute.  [Looks  down  the  road  cautiously. 
Returns.]  I've  a  letter  for  you. 

SHANKS.     From  her? 


124  THE  COPPERHEAD 

ANDREWS.  From  Washington — I  didn't  even  mention  it 
to  you  in  the  village  because — it  didn't  seem  safe.  [Hands 
letter.] 

SHANKS.  You  might  jes'  stand  at  the  gate.  [ANDREWS 
stands  watch.  SHANKS  opens  letter  and  reads  by  the  light 
from  the  door.  He  puts  letter  in  pocket.  ANDREWS  returns.] 
I'm  ordered  to  Pennsylvania.  [Pause.]  What's  been  going 
on  there? — we  didn't  git  much  news  in  Joliet. 

ANDREWS.  Hooker  has  succeeded  Rosecrans  in  command — 
but  Lee's  driven  him  back —  [Pause.]  Harper's  Ferry's 
been  taken  by  Lee — things  generally  pretty  gloomy. 

SHANKS.  My  letter  hints  there's  some  underground  leak — 
through  this  crowd  I'm  with.  [Hand  goes  to  lapel.]  They 
took  our  buttons  away  from  us  in  jail. 

ANDREWS  [ominously].  'Twouldn't  be  safe  to  wear  one 
now. 

SHANKS.  I  reckon  not — I  didn't  feel  very  safe  even  with 
out  mine — down  there  to-night. 

ANDREWS.     The  county  is  very  bitter. 

SHANKS.  Whata  they  say  about  me  bein'  pardoned  and 
Lem  Tollard  kept  in  for  life? 

ANDREWS.     Very  few  of  them  know  it  yet. 

SHANKS.  It's  gonna  make  it  hard  in  Pennsylvania,  I 
cahilate. 

ANDREWS.     Joey's  good  work  should  explain  it. 

SHANKS.  Maybe.  [Pause.]  Tollard  ain't  a  murderer  in 
heart — fact  none  of  'em — jes'  wrong-headed — an'  war's  war — 
[Pause.]  If  anything  happens  to  me — Brother  Andrews — I 
mean — permanent — 

ANDREWS.     I  understand,  Milt. 

SHANKS.  Why,  then — I'd  like  her  to  really  know —  [AN 
DREWS  nods.]  She's  fine.  [Pause.]  Mighty  fine — like  the 
wonderful  women  that —  [Pause — chews — wipes  nose.] 
An*  the  back  wash  of  it  when  she  knows  why — and  every- 
thing'll  be  twice  as  hard  'cause  she's  awful  tender-hearted — so 
make  her  understand  that  I  sensed  all  of  it  and  was  proud  she 
done  her  part  this  way — 

ANDREWS.     I  shall. 

SHANKS.  Show  her  that  ef  she  hadn't  suffered  and  suf 
fered  plenty — my  work  wouldn't  a  looked  gen-u-ine. 

ANDREWS.     She'll  know. 


THE  COPPERHEAD  125 

SHANKS.  And  Joey—  [ANDREWS  nods.]  Tell  her  'twas 
really  me  that  got  word  to  Grant  at  Columbus,  Kentucky,  that 
Van  Dorn  was  behind  him,  an'  saved  thousands  o'  Union  lives 
—like  as  not  Joey's  amongst  the  lot.  [MA  comes  from  house — 
peering  into  the  lesser  light.] 

ANDREWS.     Well,  good-night. 

MA.     You,  Brother  Andrews? 

ANDREWS.     Yes,  Martha. 

SHANKS.     An'  me.     [General  pause.] 

ANDREWS.  I'm  just  going —  Good -night,  Milt.  {Affec 
tionately  pats  his  shoulder  and  goes.  At  intervals  from  now 
on  a  small  cannon  fires  salutes.] 

MA  [pause].     Yer  pardoned? 

SHANKS.     Yes — by  the  Governor. 

MA  [points  after  ANDREWS].     He  says  'count  o'  Joey. 

SHANKS.     Yes. 

MA.     Well —     Don't  that  mortify  you  completely? 

SHANKS.  'Twould  if  I  didn't  believe  Joey'd  understand  my 
side  of  it — some  day. 

MA.     Your  side  was  Peace — wasn't  it? 

SHANKS.     As  fur  as  I  could  make  it — yes. 

MA.  Yer  empty  revolver  showed  two  of  the  shots  was  by 
you. 

SHANKS.  I  pinted  over  their  heads — besides,  I  know  I 
didn't  hit  anybody. 

MA.     You  didn't  tell  that  at  yer  trial,  did  ye? 

SHANKS.  WThat  use?  And  then  I  couldn't  strive  to  throw 
all  the  blame  onto  Lem  and  the  others. 

MA.     Yer  doin'  it  now,  ain't  you? 

SHANKS.  I  reckon  I  am — come  to  think  of  it — but — 
[Pause.] 

MA  [pause].  But  what —  Ef  you've  got  anything  to  say 
fur  yerself — fur  Gawd's  sake,  Milt — 

SHANKS.  I'm  doin'  it  now  'cause  I  care  more  fur  what 
you  think  about  my  bein'  a  murderer,  Martha — than  what  the 
law  court  thought — 

MA.     I'd  like  ter  believe  ye,  Milt. 

SHANKS.     If  ye  could — it'd  be  mighty  fine. 

MA.     Ye've  been  untruthful  so  often. 

SHANKS.     Ter  you,  Martha? 

MA.     Yes,  to  me — about  nearly  every  trip  you  made  after 


126  THE  COPPERHEAD 

you  turned  copperhead  somethin'  didn't  gee.  Where  was  you 
and  Lem  Tollard  an'  yer  crowd  takin'  them  stolen  horses? 

SHANKS.     Kentucky. 

MA.     For  rebel  guerrillas,  if  the  truth's  known,  wasn't  it? 

SHANKS  [nods].     Confederate  cavalry — yes. 

MA.  And  when  the  Sheriff's  posse  headed  you  off — you 
killed  two  of  'em. 

SHANKS  [shakes  head].    Our  crowd — not  me. 

MA.     Am  I  to  try  an'  make  the  neighbors  believe  that? 

SHANKS.  My  God — no — no —  [Pause.]  I  ain't  talkin'  fur 
the  neighbors — besides,  they  won't  be  neighbors  o'  mine. 

MA.     They  won't — 

SHANKS.  I  cahilate  ter  go  East  in  a  day  or  so — an'  git 
work  when  the  harvestin'  begins — the  war's  made  farm  hands 
scarce — folks  say. 

MA.     East?     [SHANKS  nods.]     Fur  good? 

SHANKS.     Well — while  the  war's  on,  anyway. 

MA.     And  after  the  war? 

SHANKS.  I  hope  ter  be  near  you — [pause]  and  the  chil 
dren — ef  I  kin. 

MA  [pause].     Have  you  hed  yer  supper? 

SHANKS.  Yes,  thank  you —  I'd  like  a  drink,  though — 
[Moves  to  well.] 

MA.     Here's  tea — and  it's  been  cold. 

SHANKS.  Thank  you.  [Returns,  takes  tea.]  How's 
Elsie? 

MA.  Ailin'  some — the  heat  and  the  flies — but  she  made  a 
good  supper — and  is  sleepin'. 

SHANKS.     Would  it  wake  her  if  I — looked  at  her? 

MA.  No — talkin'  would — an'  ye  better  wait  till  Grandma 
Perley  comes  out. 

SHANKS.     What  d'ye  hear  from  Joey? 

MA.  Here's  his  letters —  [Sorts  them.]  'Twould  do  you 
no  good  to  read  these —  [Lays  them  aside.] 

SHANKS.     Where's  the  last  one? 

MA  [handing  letter].  I'll  get  Grandma  Perley  out  the 
other  way.  [Exit.  SHANKS  watches  her  off — drinks  tea 
from  bucket — opens  a  letter  and  reads.  The  village  bell  tolls 
very  distantly.  SHANKS  adjusts  himself  to  its  novelty  and  re 
sumes  reading.  The  sound  of  a  cantering  horse  approaches — 
MILT  moves  from  light  to  shadow.  SAM  CARTER,  a  soldier, 


THE  COPPERHEAD  127 

rides  on  and  stops  back  of  fence,  pauses,  dismounts  and  ties. 
Soldier  enters  yard  to  light — calls  into  house.] 

SAM  Icalls^     Hello! 

SHANKS  [speaks].     Good  evening. 

SAM  {inquiring}.     Shanks? 

SHANKS  [into  light  again].  Hello,  Sam.  IA  distant 
gun] 

SAM  Ipause — nodding  off].  That's  fur  Vicksburg's  sur 
render. 

SHANKS.    Yes. 

SAM.     What  are  you  doin' — round  here? 

SHANKS.    Well — I  have  been  away,  but — 

SAM  Ipause].     In  trouble — we  heard,  in  the  army. 

SHANKS.  Yes — considerable — but,  somehow — 'count  Joey 
doin'  so  well — I — I — was — released — 

SAM.  He  did  do  well —  [Awkwardly.]  Come  up  by  the 
gate.  [They  go  up.]  Whoa,  boy — Whoa!  [Goes  to  horse.] 

SHANKS.    Where  air  you  from  now? 

SAM.  Vicksburg — but  I  left  there  two  days  ago  with  some 
prisoners  and  wounded — steamer  Forest  Queen  to  Cairo — 
When  did  you  hear  from  Joe? 

SHANKS  [down  with  letter  to  light].     Last  week. 

SAM.     How  was  Joe? 

SHANKS  [reading'].  All  right — an*  mighty  hopeful  about 
Grant's  winnin*. 

SAM.     Joe — Joe's  dead. 

SHANKS.     Dead !     [Looks  slowly  at  letter  and  back.] 

SAM.     Yes — awful  sorry. 

SHANKS.     Who  told  you  so? 

SAM.     I  saw  him. 

SHANKS.     Saw  him — killed? 

SAM.     No — but  afterwards — in  his  coffin. 

SHANKS.     You  mean — they  buried  him? 

SAM.  We  fetched  his  body  home  on  our  boat  to  Cairo — 
and  box  car  over  here. 

SHANKS.     Kain't  be  no  mistake?     Joseph  Taylor  Shanks? 

SAM  [nods].     Son  o'  Milton  Shanks. 

SHANKS  [nods  helplessly].     That's  right.     [Re'enter  MA.] 

MA.     Yer  kin  come  in  now,  but  walk  on  yer  toes. 

SHANKS.     Sam  Carter's  here — 

MA.     Oh —    How  are  you,  Sam? 


128  THE  COPPERHEAD 

SAM.     Good  evening. 

SHANKS.     — with  bad  news,  Martha. 

MA  [quickly].     Bad  news!     From  Joey? 

SHANKS.    Yes. 

MA.  Give  me  the  letter.  [Takes  letter  quickly  from 
MILT.] 

SHANKS.  That's  the  one  you  gave  me — Joey — couldn't 
write  hisseli —  My  God,  Martha,  it's  terrible —  [Cannon — 
bell.  The  village  band  plays  "  When  Johnnie  comes  March 
ing  Home"] 

MA.     Terrible?     Hurt  bad? 

SAM.     He's  dead,  Mrs.  Shanks. 

MA.  Oh,  Gawd —  Oh,  Gawd! —  [Crosses,  in  agony, 
to  corner  of  well — falls,  kneeling  on  it — she  sobs  a  bit,  then, 
realizing  that  JOEY  had  that  place  before  he  went  away,  she 
caresses  the  curb  and  weeps.] 

SAM  [after  pause].     Yer  oughta  say  somethin'  to  her — 

SHANKS.  Joey  wouldn't  want  ye  ter  do  that,  ma.  [Bends 
over  her.] 

MA  [shrinking  from  him].  Fer  Gawd's  sake,  Milt  Shanks 
— don't  tetch  me — yer  unclean — yer  unclean —  [She  rises. 
She  presses  JOE'S  letter  against  her  face  and  so,  sobbing,  crosses 
to  ironing  board,  gets  other  letters,  and  exits.] 

SHANKS  [pause].     You  said — in  a  box  car. 

SAM.     Unloaded — in  the  depot  now. 

SHANKS.     I'll  go  there.     [Starts.] 

SAM  [interposes].     I  wouldn't,  Milt. 

SHANKS.     Why  not? 

SAM.  Newt  Gillespie's  with  it — he's  wounded,  himself, 
slightly. 

SHANKS.  Well — 'twon't  hurt  fur  me  to  be  there,  too — by 
his  coffin — 

SAM.  'Twon't  be  pleasant,  'cause  that's  one  reason  Newt 
come  along —  'Fore  he  died  Joe  said,  "  Don't  let  my  father 
see  me — even  in  my  coffin — "  Boy  was  kinda  feverish  but 
Newt  takes  it  serious — and  Newt  wouldn't  'low  you  even  if 
you  went  there —  [He  mounts.]  My  advice  is  to  take  it 
comfortable  as  you  kin —  [SAM  rides  off.  SHANKS  watches 
him  off — looks  at  sky — comes  into  light — looks  painfully  into 
house — stands  irresolute — goes  into  road  with  intention  of  go- 


THE  COPPERHEAD  129 

ing  to  JOEY — feels  the  pull  of  the  stricken  wife — stops — returns 
into  light  and  is  looking  into  house.  In  distance,  <e  Johnny 
Comes  Marching  Home."] 


[CURTAIN.] 


CHARACTERS  IN  PART  TWO 

MILTON  SHANKS  • Aged  78 

MADELINE  KING,  his  granddaughter 

PHILIP  MANNING 

MRS.  MANNING 

COL.  HARDY   

DR.  RANDALL  

NEWT  GILLESPIE   

LEM  TOLLARD 


22 
28 
48 
76 

34 
78 
78 


PART  II 

ACT  III 

SCENE 

Set  same  as  preceding  acts  but  showing  lapse  of  forty  years  and 
some  improvement  by  money.  The  lilac  bush  is  now  tall 
as  the  house  and  is  in  bloom — spring  flowers  in  beds.  The 
ground  cloth  has  become  a  lawn.  The  well-sweep  is  re 
placed  by  super-structure  and  pulley  wheel.  Small  trees 
are  big.  Vines  cover  the  porch.  The  cornfield  suggests 
Villa  acreage  instead.  There  is  a  picket  fence  where  the 
rails  were.  Lawn  furniture. 

DISCOVERED 

Empty  stage.  Piano  heard.  Enter  SHANKS — aged  seventy-six 
— white-haired  and  bowed.  He  is  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  He 
crosses  up  to  gate — goes  outsidef  and  examines  R.F.D.  box. 
Opens  letter — to  himself,  reads.  Consults  watch.  The 
song  stops. 

SHANKS  [calls].     Some  letters  fur  you,  dearie. 

MADELINE  [off].     From  Boston? 

SHANKS.  One  is.  [Enter  MADELINE.  This  part  is  for 
the  same  actress  who  does  MA  in  Acts  One  and  Two — but  with 
complete  change  of  character  from  drudge  woman  to  bright 
girl  and  from  dark  hair  to  blonde.] 

MADELINE.     Big  envelope? 

SHANKS  [hands  mail].     Yes. 

MADELINE  [showing  contents  of  letter].  A  copy  of  my 
certificate,  grandpa. 

SHANKS  [brightly].     From  the  Normal? 

MADELINE.  Yes.  That  ought  to  satisfy  the  board,  hadn't 
it? 

SHANKS  [smiles].     Some. 


i32  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MADELINE.     What's  the  best  way  to  present  it? 

SHANKS.  One  way's  ter  send  it  or  take  it  to  their  meetin' 
to-night — other  way  is  take  it  round  this  afternoon  to  the 
separate  members. 

MADELINE.     I  could  do  both. 

SHANKS.     'Course  ye  could. 

MADELINE  [in  delight].     Oh!     If  I  get  it,  grandpa — 

SHANKS.  You  ain't  jes'  sayin'  that  'cause  it  tickles  me — 
air  ye? 

MADELINE.  No,  indeed — why,  look  around  us — no  grain 
elevators — no  noisy  railroad  yards — no  cobble  stones — and  sixty 
dollars  a  month,  here,  is  as  good  as  eighty  in  the  city — and 
maybe  I'd  get  some  singing,  too. 

SHANKS.  Wouldn't  count  on  that  for  money —  Lemme 
see  yer  certificate —  [Takes  it — MADELINE  opens  other  let 
ters — is  earnest  over  one.  Pause.]  I've  got  to  go  to  the  vil 
lage — I  kin  show  this  to  some  of  'em. 

MADELINE.    The  village?    Why? 

SHANKS.  There's  a  man  I  want  ter  see  comin'  in  on  the 
train — or  you  could  go  along,  too. 

MADELINE  [shakes  head].     My  doctor's  coming. 

SHANKS.    Yer  doctor? 

MADELINE.  The  specialist — that  treated  my  throat  last 
winter. 

SHANKS  [frightened].     Why,  darlin' — ye  ain't  ailin'  agin? 

MADELINE  [affectionately.  Laughs  and  pets  him].  No, 
grandpa — a  friendly  visit —  He's  down  this  way  on  another 
call,  be  says. 

SHANKS.  Doctors  unsettle  me.  An'  I  don't  want  any  o' 
their  blamed  experiments  on  th'  only  treasure  God  A'mighty's 
spared  me — no. 

MADELINE.  I  don't  need  one — I  never  will  down  here. 
It's  only  the  soft  coal  in  the  city! 

SHANKS  [with  certificate].  I'll  go  in  Philip  Manning's  of 
fice  with  this  and  ask  him  to  tell  his  mother  about  it. 

MADELINE.  We  can  wait  until  the  meeting  for  Mrs.  Man 
ning — she's  for  me,  of  course. 

SHANKS.  But  maybe  this'll  give  her  a  chance  to  pull  some 
wires  this  afternoon. 

MADELINE.    That's  so. 


THE  COPPERHEAD  133 

SHANKS.  And  give  Philip  a  chance.  He  ain't  on  the 
board,  but  he's  a  power  jest  the  same. 

MADELINE.     You  bet. 

SHANKS.     You  know,  Maddy,  I  sicked  Philip  into  politics. 

MADELINE.     Yes,  I  know. 

SHANKS.     D'  I  ever  tell  you  that? 

MADELINE.     Often,  grandpa,  yes. 

SHANKS.  Years  ago,  in  a  town  meetin' — he  stud  up  and 
said  sumpin' — I  fergit  what  it  was — an'  I  sent  fur  him —  Jest 
a  slip  of  a  boy  no  older  than  yer  Uncle  Joey  was.  I  said — 
"Young  man,  you  take  an'  ole  feller's  advice  you'll  go  inter 
politicks — you  got  everything  fur  it — voice  and  hair — blue  eyes" 
— an'  now,  by  Jim-min-nee,  he's  in  the  legislature — I  know 
it —  [Enter  PHILIP  and  MRS.  MANNING,  left,  behind  fence.} 

PHILIP.     Good  afternoon. 

MADELINE  [very  pleased}.     Oh —    How-de-do. 

SHANKS.  Why,  Philip — jest  talkin'  about  you — afternoon, 
Mrs.  Manning. 

MRS.  MANNING.     Good  afternoon,  Miss  Shanks. 

MADELINE.     My  certificate  has  come  from  Boston. 

MRS.  MANNING.    Good. 

MADELINE.     Come  in. 

PHILIP.     We're  on  our  way  to  Colonel  Hardy's. 

MADELINE.     Just  a  minute — your  coat,  grandpa. 

PHILIP.     Nonsense — never  mind  your  coat,  Mr.  Shanks. 

SHANKS  [on  porch}.  Got  to  go  to  the  village,  anyway. 
[Exit.  MRS.  MANNING  and  PHILIP  come  through  gate.} 

MRS.  MANNING  [with  certificate}.  This  completes  our 
hand.  I'll  make  a  motion  that  applicants  for  the  position  of 
teacher  must  show  a  normal  school  certificate —  That  will 
dispose  of  Mrs.  Simpson. 

PHILIP.  Yes,  mother,  if  the  motion  passes — but  we  want 
to  be  sure.  Hardy's  our  man  to  see.  [Reenter  SHANKS  with 
coat  on.} 

MRS.  MANNING.  Why  Colonel  Hardy  so  importantly? 
He  isn't  on  the  board. 

PHILIP.  But  as  president  of  the  village  he  appoints  the 
board — and  the  majority  will  want  to  please  him.  Politics 
every  time. 

SHANKS.     Hardy — Hardy's  a  stiff-necked  feller — allers  was. 


134  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MRS.  MANNING.  Don't  you  like  Colonel  Hardy,  Mr 
Shanks  ? 

SHANKS.     I  do — but  Hardy  ain't  very  friendly. 

PHILIP.     Then  all  the  more  reason  for  us  to  see  him. 

MRS.  MANNING.  Do  you  think  he'd  favor  Mrs.  Simpson 
for  the  place? 

SHANKS.  Well,  you  see — she's  a  widder  and  her  father's 
a  Grand  Army  man — Hardy's  a  Grand  Army  man,  too. 

PHILIP.    That's  so. 

MRS.  MANNING.  Her  old  father's  one  of  my  objections  to 
Mrs.  Simpson.  I'm  a  great  believer  in  heredity  myself. 

SHANKS.  We  got  a  little  heredity  ourselves.  Madeline's 
Uncle  Joey  was  in  Hardy's  company.  Ef  he'd  a  lived  he'd  a 
been  a  Gran'  Army  hisself. 

PHILIP.     That's  a  good  point  for  Hardy. 

SHANKS.  Oh,  he  ain't  forgot  it.  Hardy  ain't  the  forgettin 
kind.  [Consults  watch.']  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me;  I  got  ter 
meet  a  man  at  the  train. 

MRS.  MANNING.     Certainly. 

SHANKS  [going].  Madeline  kin  make  ye  feel  more  at 
home  than  I  kin,  anyway.  [Exit.] 

MADELINE.     Please  sit  down.     [They  sit] 

PHILIP.  Now  let's  hold  a  council  of  war.  We're  going  to 
get  you  that  teacher  job  if  I  have  to  set  fire  to  the  school  house 
What  strings  can  we  pull  ? 

MRS.  MANNING.  There  ?re  only  five  votes — three  men 
and  Mrs.  Voorhees  and  myself —  One  comfort,  my  dear,  the 
women  are  for  you. 

PHILIP.  Tompkins  is  a  regular  crony  of  Gillespie's — sure 
for  Mrs.  Simpson. 

MRS.  MANNING.  So's  Wheeler.  Our  only  hope  is  the 
third  man,  Baumer. 

PHILIP.     What's  his  line  of  goods? 

MRS.  MANNING.  He  gives  Swedish  massage  and  tunes 
pianos. 

PHILIP.  Tunes  pianos —  Probably  recommends  some  make 
on  commission,  doesn't  he? 

MRS.  MANNING.     I  think  he  does. 

PHILIP  [rising].  Good.  I'll  consult  him  about  a  piano 
this  afternoon. 

MRS.  MANNING  [shakes  head].     He  knows  I  have  one. 


THE  COPPERHEAD  135 

PHILIP.  Not  for  you — some  friend  of  mine  getting  mar 
ried.  And  then — [indicates  MADELINE]  and  let's  see — I  won 
der  if  he  knows  you  sing?  [MADELINE  shrugs.] 

MRS.  MANNING.  He  must.  The  whole  village  is  talking 
of  your  singing  last  Sunday — the  first  morning  service  I've 
missed  in  months. 

PHILIP.  Well,  there's  another  drag — brother  artist — and 
I'll  tell  him  if  we  can  get  you  to  live  here  there'll  be  regular 
concerts — you'll  want  a  new  piano — the  best  he  can  find,  and 
for  every  concert  it'll  have  to  be  freshly  tuned  and  massaged 
and  everything —  Oh,  I'll  get  Baumer. 

MRS.  MANNING.     They're  raving  about  your  voice. 

MADELINE.     How  lovely! 

PHILIP.  And  they've  never  really  heard  it.  I  was  at 
church  Sunday  morning.  Come  in  and  sing  one  of  those  lovely 
ballads  for  mother,  now,  and  we'll  go  on  about  our  cam 
paigning. 

MRS.  MANNING  [rising].     Please. 

MADELINE  [as  they  start  toward  house].  It's  pleasanter  out 
of  doors,  and  you'll  hear  just  as  well.  [Exit.] 

PHILIP  [on  porch].     Personally,  I  enjoy  seeing  it  done. 

MRS.  MANNING.     Don't  embarrass  her,  Philip. 

PHILIP  [returns].  Girls  aren't  embarrassed  nowadays, 
mother,  because  men  like  to  look  at  them.  [With  lover's 
fervor.]  Isn't  she  adorable  ?  [Song  begins.] 

MRS.  MANNING.  Sh —  [After  a  few  bars  of  song — COLO 
NEL  HARDY  enters,  left,  back  of  fence.  He  is  the  CAPTAIN 
HARDY  of  the  first  part  of  play,  and  now  about  seventy-five 
years  old.] 

PHILIP  [seeing  HARDY].  There's  Colonel  Hardy!  [Calls.'] 
Colonel!  [HARDY,  who  has  crossed,  stops  up  right.  MRS. 
MANNING  rises.] 

PHILIP  [in  tone  intended  not  to  interrupt  singer].  Mother 
and  I  were  just  going  to  see  you,  Colonel. 

HARDY  [lifting  hat].  Mrs.  Manning —  [MRS.  MANNING 
gives  hand.] 

PHILIP  [nodding  to  house].  That's  Miss  King  singing. 
Have  you  met  her? 

HARDY.     No. 

PHILIP  [opening  gate].     Come  in. 

HARDY.     No,  thank  you. 


i36  THE  COPPERHEAD 

PHILIP.     Business — Colonel — for  the  village — 

MRS.  MANNING  [persuading].     Yes. 

HARDY  [indicates  yard].  It's  forty  years,  Mrs.  Manning, 
since  I  set  foot  on  that  ground. 

PHILIP  [playfully].  But  Miss  King's  only  about  twenty — 
aren't  visiting  the  third  generation  with  the  sins  of  others — 
are  you,  Colonel  ?  You  know  that's  a  divine  prerogative. 

HARDY.  I  refuse  to  speak  to  Mr.  Milton  Shank —  [Song 
stops.  MRS.  MANNING  turns  back  to  porch.] 

PHILIP.     He's  gone  to  the  village. 

HARDY.     No?     [Reenter  MADELINE.] 

MADELINE  [laughing].  It's  a  very  sentimental  selection, 
but — [slows  down  as  she  sees  the  stranger]  Philip  is  rather  par 
tial  to  it. 

MRS.  MANNING.  Miss  King — I  want  Colonel  Hardy,  our 
village  president,  to  meet  you. 

MADELINE  [coming  on].     You're  very  good. 

MRS.  MANNING.     Miss  Madeline  King,  Colonel  Hardy. 

HARDY  [lifting  hat].     Miss  King! 

MADELINE.  Won't  you  come  in,  Colonel?  You're  one  of 
my  story  book  heroes — 

HARDY  [reserved  but  pleased  by  her].     Indeed? 

MADELINE.  Colonel  Hardy's  a  name  as  large  as  George 
Washington  in  our  household — an  uncle  of  mine  was  in  your 
regiment —  Do  come  in  a  moment —  [HARDY  enters.  Chairs 
are  readjusted.] 

MRS.  MANNING.  Colonel  Hardy  heard  some  of  your 
song —  [To  HARDY.]  This  is  Miss  King's  certificate  from 
the  Normal  School — Boston — 

HARDY.  I  won't  sit  down,  thank  you — I'm  on  my  way 
home.  [With  certificate.]  Oh,  yes —  Well,  you've  evidently- 
been  very  industrious,  Miss  King. 

MADELINE.  Very  fortunate,  Colonel  ...  so  far.  My  am 
bition  now  is  to  be  allowed  to  stay  here. 

HARDY  [attempting  humor].  Well — I've  some  influence 
with  the  police. 

MADELINE.     They  haven't  bothered  me — yet — 

PHILIP.     They  may ! 

HARDY.     Yes —     They're  both  young. 

MADELINE  [shakes  head].  It's  the  shop-keepers —  I've  got 
work  in  Chicago — but  I  can't  coax  grandpa  away  from  this 


THE  COPPERHEAD  137 

place — and  I'd  rather  come  to  him — I  do  know  how  to  teach 
school. 

HARDY  [musing,  and  studying  her}.  'M.  [Pause.]  Your 
grandfather  likes  it  here? 

MADELINE.  Adores  it —  I  had  an  awful  time  getting  that 
picket  fence — the  old  rails  had  been  there  when  Captain  Tom 
Hardy  leaned  on  them — Sam  somebody  tied  his  horse  there, 
when  Vicksburg  surrendered. 

HARDY  [pause].  The  other  candidate  before  the  school 
board  has  lived  here  always. 

MRS.  MANNING.  Exactly — she'll  perpetuate  every  local 
blemish. 

HARDY.     Her  father  has  lived  here — 

MADELINE.  Well,  my  grandfather — and  grandmother — 
until  Vicksburg  "  came  along,"  as  grandpa  says — 

HARDY.  I  knew  your  grandmother,  and  it's  a  pleasure  to 
meet  you —  The  school  board  matter  is  mere — gossip  with  me  : 
I'm  not  a  member.  [Extends  kand.~\ 

MRS.  MANNING.  Philip  and  I  will  walk  with  you  a  ways 
and  elaborate  the  gossip. 

HARDY.     Delighted. 

PHILIP.  I'll  follow,  mother,  and  relieve  you  in  a  few  min 
utes.  I'm  a  terrible  muff  at  gossip. 

HARDY.     He's  boasting. 

PHILIP.  And  the  sidewalks  in  your  man's  town,  Colonel, 
aren't  organized  for  three.  .  .  . 

HARDY  [at  gate].  My  dear  Philip — that's  what  recom 
mends  them —  Come,  Mrs.  Manning.  [Exeunt  MRS.  MAN 
NING  and  COLONEL.] 

PHILIP  [easily].     No  school  like  the  old  school. 

MADELINE.     I  think  your  mother's  wonderful. 

PHILIP.  Father  was  all  right,  too — [pause  and  smile]  and 
the  further  back  you  go  the  better  we  get — 

MADELINE   [smiling].     I  wasn't  thinking  in  that  direction. 

PHILIP.     Fine!     Let's  talk  about  me.     [Sits.] 

MADELINE.  You  should  hear  grandpa.  He  thinks  he  put 
you  into  the  legislature. 

PHILIP.     I  think  so,  too. 

MADELINE.  And  in  his  mind  and  heart  he's  got  you  all 
nominated  next  fall  for  Congress. 

PHILIP  [seriously].     Really!     [MADELINE  nods  and  smiles.] 


I38  THE  COPPERHEAD 

Funny,  but  Hardy's  been  putting  that  congressional  bee  into 
my  bonnet,  too. 

MADELINE.    Why  not? 

PHILIP.  Oh,  I'm  in  favor  of  it — but  I  might  get  a  glorious 
licking  and  be  assigned  to  go  on  in  very  private  and  depressing 
obscurity  here. 

MADELINE  [reproving].  One  doesn't  win  by  feeling  that 
way,  Mr.  Candidate. 

PHILIP.     I  got  in  the  legislature  feeling  that  way. 

MADELINE  [pause].     You  said  "  depressing  obscurity !" 

PHILIP.     Well? 

MADELINE.     Do  you  mean  the  life  in  this  place? 

PHILIP.     Principally. 

MADELINE.  I  don't  call  it  depressing.  I  think  it's  beauti 
ful.  I  love  every  minute  that  I  can  stay  here. 

PHILIP.     You're  not  a  man — with  ambition. 

MADELINE.  Lincoln  was.  He  lived  only  a  few  miles  over 
that  way. 

PHILIP.     But  Lincoln  wanted  to  go  to  Washington. 

MADELINE.  I  don't  believe  he  did — very  much.  Grandpa 
says  he  didn't.  And  just  a  few  miles  further  over  that  way 
is  Whitcomb  Riley.  "  'Long  the  banks  of  Deer  Crick's  good 
enough  for  him." 

PHILIP.     I'm  not  a  poet. 

MADELINE.    Grandpa  says  you  are. 

PHILIP.     Does  he? 

MADELINE.    Yes. 

PHILIP.     Did  he  mean  it  for  a  knock  or  a  boost — ? 

MADELINE.     Boost,  I  hope. 

PHILIP.  Good —  [Pause.  Earnestly]  I've  got  a  notion 
to  tell  you  something,  Madeline  King. 

MADELINE.     Poetry  ? 

PHILIP  [nods].  The  first  day  I  saw  you — after  you  came 
back  from  Boston — this  same  time  two  years  ago — I  was  to 
make  the  Decoration  Day  speech  at  the  soldiers'  monument  next 
day  and  I  was  scared  blue — I  didn't  have  a  single  idea — but  I 
drifted  by  here  on  the  other  side  of  the  road —  You  were 
standing  near  the  gate — [MADELINE  nods] — that  big  lilac  bush 
behind  you —  There'd  been  a  shower  and  "  the  sun  had  come 
out  with  a  flagon  of  amber  and  drenched  the  whole  world  in 
ambrosial  wine." 


THE  COPPERHEAD  139 

MADELINE  [in  real  appreciation].     Oh,  that's  wonderful. 

PHILIP.  It  seemed  a  vision.  A  symbol  of  the  beauty  that 
must  be  eternal — and — I — had — my — speech —  [Smiles — re 
laxes.] 

MADELINE.  We  heard  you  make  it.  That's  when  grandpa 
decided  you  were  a  poet.  You  said  something  about  the  sad 
ness  of  the  flowers  fading,  but  the  unbearable  thing  would  be 
if  the  Spirit  of  Spring  itself  should  pass  from  the  world — 
Then  about  those  young  people  there  growing  old,  but  there 
would  always  be  on  earth  the  spirit  of  youth — and  from  that 
to  the  soldiers  dying  but  forever  the  spirit  of  Liberty — living — 
and  so  on — didn't  you  ? 

PHILIP.  Yes — but  all  the  time  I  was  thinking  of  you  and 
that  lilac  and  the  golden  sunlight  over  you  and,  dog-gone  it, 
Madeline,  it's  haunted  me  in  committee  rooms  and  courts  and 
railroad  trains.  Do  you  know,  I  jumped  up  to  Chicago  from 
Springfield  last  session  and  went  to  church  just  to  look  at  you 
singing. 

MADELINE.    When  ? 

PHILIP.     In  February. 

MADELINE.     Why  didn't  you  speak  to  me  ? 

PHILIP.  When  it  was  over  the  aisle  was  crowded  and  be 
fore  I  could  get  to  you — you  went  out  the  stage  entrance. 

MADELINE  [solemnly f  shaking  head].  That  isn't  what  we 
call  the  side  door  of  a  church. 

PHILIP.  I  want  you  to  get  this  teacher  job  if  you  want  it — 
but  whether  you  do  or  don't — I've  just  got  to  have  you  with 
me,  Madeline — 

MADELINE  [pause].  Of  course —  [Pause.]  Any  woman 
would  be  complimented,  Mr.  Manning — 

PHILIP.     Would  she,  Miss  King? 

MADELINE.  Yes,  Philip —  [PHILIP  nods  solemnly.] 
Complimented  by  your — your — attention — 

PHILIP.     I'm  asking  you  to  marry  me,  you  know. 

MADELINE  [pause].  I  couldn't —  [pause]  quite  leave 
grandpa — now. 

PHILIP.  Don't  leave  him — if  the  place  is  good  enough  for 
Lincoln  and  Whitcomb  Riley,  I'll  stand  for  it.  Say  yes. 

MADELINE  [regarding  him].     You're  a  funny — creature. 

PHILIP.  Well,  I'll  throw  that  in  along  with  the  poetry — 
but  principally  I  want  you  to  think  about  my  law  position  and 


i4o  THE  COPPERHEAD 

my  general  health.  You're  just  playing  the  mischief  with 
both  of  'em.  .  .  .  [Pause.  He  puts  out  his  hand.  MADELINE 
studies  him;  then  quietly  lays  her  hand  in  his.]  It's  a  bet, 
is  it? 

MADELINE  [hushed].  Yes — it's  a  bet!  [He  kisses  her 
hand.  Then  with  a  better  idea,  goes  to  fence  and  looks  right 
and  left — returns.  Rising.}  No. 

PHILIP.  Not  a  God's  soul  in  sight  but  one  stranger,  and 
he's  a  block  away.  [Embraces  and  kisses  her.] 

MADELINE.  Don't  any  more — don't  [breaks  away]  — but 
I'm  awfully  happy. 

PHILIP  [pause].  I  can  think  of  about  a  million  things  in 
my  life  I  wish  I  hadn't  done. 

MADELINE.     Stage  doors? 

PHILIP.  No — mostly  stupid  things,  like  thinking  there 
wasn't  a  God.  [Laughs  tenderly.  Enter,  from  right  back, 
DOCTOR  RANDALL.  RANDALL  looks  over  the  fence  as  though 
to  identify  the  place — sees  MADELINE.] 

RANDALL.  Why!  Miss  King!  [MADELINE  goes  to 
gate.} 

MADELINE.  Doctor  Randall — this  is  wonderful.  [Shakes 
hands.] 

RANDALL.     Yes.     [She  brings  him  through  the  gate.} 

MADELINE.  Mr.  Manning — let  me  introduce  Doctor  Ran 
dall,  of  Chicago. 

PHILIP.     Pleased  to  meet  you,  sir. 

RANDALL.  Mr.  Manning.  [Shaking  hands. ,]  Haven't  we 
met  before? 

MADELINE.     Mr.  Manning  is  our  member  of  the  legislature. 

RANDALL.     Judiciary  Committee? 

PHILIP.    Yes. 

RANDALL.     That's  it — I'm  on  the  Pardon  Board. 

PHILIP.     Of  course.     Stupid  not  to  remember  you. 

MADELINE.     Sit  down. 

PHILIP.  I  promised  to  follow  mother,  you  know.  [To 
RANDALL.]  Honoring  our  metropolis  by  any  lengthy  visit, 
Doctor? 

RANDALL.     Leaving  to-night. 

PHILIP.  Oh — may  see  you  later  at  that.  [Smiles  to  MADE 
LINE.]  Good-by.  [Exit  right.] 

MADELINE.     Awfully  good  of  you  to  think  of  me. 


THE  COPPERHEAD  141 

RANDALL.  I  had  a  professional  call  at  Moline  this  forenoon 
— seemed  a  crime  to  be  so  near  and  not  see  you — and  this 
amusing  coincidence  of  your  address. 

MADELINE.     What? 

RANDALL.     The  name — "  care  of  Mr.  Milton  Shanks  " — 

MADELINE.     My  grandfather. 

RANDALL.     I  thought  likely — we're  old  acquaintances. 

MADELINE.     Grandpa  and  you? 

RANDALL.  Yes.  Had  half  a  dozen  conferences  at  Spring 
field — since  I've  been  on  the  Pardon  Board. 

MADELINE.     What  about? 

RANDALL.  Some  old  fellow  he's  interested  in.  But  isn't 
it  strange  that  in  all  our  talks  about  him  you  never  mentioned 
his  name? 

MADELINE.  I  don't  know.  He's  gone  to  the  station  now 
to  meet  someone. 

RANDALL.  That's  me,  I  fancy.  I  wrote  him  by  the  same 
mail. 

MADELINE.    Yes? 

RANDALL.  I  got  off  at  the  crossing.  Brakeman  said  I'd 
save  time.  [Indicates  baa.]  Nothing  to  carry. 

MADELINE.     Then  your  visit  isn't  mine,  after  all? 

RANDALL.     Entirely  yours — grandfather  is  just  an  excuse. 

MADELINE.     Did  you  need  an  excuse? 

RANDALL.  A  man's  self-respect  needs  one,  when  a  girl's 
turned  him  down  annually  for  years. 

MADELINE  [smiles].  I've  known  you  only  two  years,  Doc 
tor. 

RANDALL  [pause].  Really?  [She  nods.]  Those  refusals 
seemed  a  year  apart. 

MADELINE.     That's  better. 

RANDALL.     How's  the  voice? 

MADELINE.     Fine,  thank  you. 

RANDALL.  You  know,  I  don't  want  to  talk  physiology 
to  you,  but  even  a  great  voice  is  sometimes  improved  by  mar 
riage. 

MADELINE.  That's  the  most  expensive  treatment  you've 
ever  recommended. 

RANDALL.     I  offer  it  free. 

MADELINE  [shaking  head].     'Twouldn't  be  fair. 

RANDALL.    To  you? 


i42  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MADELINE.    To  either  of  us. 

RANDALL.     I  wouldn't  ask  you  to  give  up  your  work. 

MADELINE.     I  can't  do  things  by  halves. 

RANDALL.     Not  even — better  halves? 

MADELINE.  Not  even  better  halves.  I  love  the  Church 
work  and  the  City  now,  but  when  I  marry  I'll  want  something 
more  like — this  [stretches  out  her  arms] — the  sky  to  the 
ground  all  about  me. 

RANDALL  [in  coaxing  cadence].     Suburbs — 

MADELINE  [shuddering].     Ugh! 

RANDALL  [pause].  The  lake  front  would  give  us  an  hori 
zon  view  half  way  round. 

MADELINE  [pause.  Shakes  head].  I'm — sorry.  [Pause. 
Maternally.']  Dear  Doctor  [puts  hand  on  his  arm] — I  haven't 
told  anyone  about  it — not  even  grandpa — but  I'm  engaged  to 
be  married  now — 

RANDALL  [pause].     Afraid  to  tell  grandpa? 

MADELINE.  No.  [Pause.]  I  haven't  seen  him  since  it 
happened.  [RANDALL  looks  at  her — looks  off — looks  at  her — 
pause — nods  off  inquiringly  after  PHILIP — MADELINE  slowly 
nods  "yes."] 

RANDALL.     Ten  minutes  too  late. 

MADELINE.  No,  dear  Doctor;  I've  been  in  love  with  him 
over  a  year.  [A  pause.  RANDALL  gets  a  railroad  yellow  time 
table  from  his  pocket  and  begins  to  consult  it.  MADELINE 
covers  the  time-table.]  Please  wait  and  see  grandpa.  I  do 
want  your  opinion  about  him. 

RANDALL.     'Tisn't  my  specialty — but — I  get  a  bit  of  it. 

MADELINE.  It  seems  to  be  only  the  Civil  War — and  that's 
all  right,  too,  except  the  siege  of  Vicksburg. 

RANDALL.     Was  he  at  Vicksburg? 

MADELINE  [shakes  head].  His  boy — my  uncle  on  my 
mother's  side — was  killed  there. 

RANDALL.     Union  army? 

MADELINE.  Yes;  and  some  of  the  explanation  may  be 
there.  Grandpa  wasn't  in  the  Confederate  army  but  a  sym 
pathizer.  Folks — well,  not  so  much  now — but  they  used  to 
blame  him  for  it — kinda  cruelly. 

RANDALL.     I  see.     [Pause.     Reenter  SHANKS.] 

MADELINE  [going  to  him].  Grandpa,  I'm  glad  you're 
back.  This  is  my  good  friend,  Doctor  Randall,  of  Chicago. 


THE  COPPERHEAD  143 

SHANKS.     When  you  had  your  sore  throat? 

MADELINE.    Yes. 

SHANKS.  Madeline  never  told  me  the  name,  or  I'd  known 
it.  How'd  I  miss  you? 

RANDALL.     I  got  off  at  the  crossing. 

SHANKS.  Sit  down,  Doctor.  How  do  you  think  Made 
line's  looking? 

RANDALL.     Looking?     Why,  heart-breakingly  happy,  sir. 

SHANKS.     Heart-breaking? 

MADELINE.  He's  laughing  at  me,  grandpa,  because  I've 
been  foolish  enough  to  tell  him  a  secret — but  I'll  not  let  him 
laugh  at  you,  too.  I'm  engaged,  grandpa. 

SHANKS  [unhappy  at  the  idea  that  the  man  is  RANDALL]. 
Why— 

MADELINE.     To  Philip  Manning. 

SHANKS.  To  Philip — well,  I'm  happy,  too.  That  [to 
RANDALL]  — that'll  keep  her  here  [to  MADELINE]  unless  you 
go  to  Washington.  [To  RANDALL.]  The  young  man's  in 
the  legislature.  'Fact,  you've  heard  him  talk  at  your  com 
mission. 

RANDALL  [nodding].     We  met  here  to-day. 

SHANKS.  Engaged.  So  you  don't  care  anything  about  the 
teacher's  position,  then? 

MADELINE.  Oh,  but  I  do — all  the  more.  I've  got  to  be 
perfectly  independent — so  that  Philip  shan't  feel  too  sure 
about  it.  [All  laugh.] 

SHANKS.  I  reckon  you've  seen  her  more'n  her  grandfather 
has — livin'  in  Chicago. 

MADELINE.     Not  quite,  grandpa. 

RANDALL.  It  must  be  fairly  lonely  by  yourself.  What  do 
you  do  here,  Mr.  Shanks,  when  she's  away? 

SHANKS.  Well — I  read.  [Pause.}  An'  I  think  consid 
erable — an'  I  cook  some — besides,  a  good  deal  of  it's  habit. 

RANDALL.  Yes;  these  machines  of  ours  are  very  adjustable 
things. 

SHANKS.     Machines? 

RANDALL.    Our  bodies. 

SHANKS.  Yes,  but  I  cahilate  it's  more  a  man's  ideas — 
how  he  thinks.  Automobiles  go  along  that  road  now,  but  I've 
seen  cavalry  ridin'  by  in  the  sixties — an'  cannons — four  horses 
to  'em.  General  Logan — "  Fightin'  John,"  they  called  him, 


i44  THE  COPPERHEAD 

rested  hisself  in  that  chair  yer  sittin'  in — Madeline's  grand 
mother  give  him  a  drink  o'  water.  [Conscious  of  the  well.] 
Automobiles  go  by  here  now,  but  sometimes  I  kin  see  Logan 
and  the  cavalry  plainer.  How  do  you  account  for  that? 

RANDALL.     Deeper  impressions. 

SHANKS.  Madeline's  mother  played  roun'  under  them  lilac 
bushes — Madeline  played  under  'em.  Somehow  I  see  the 
mother  cl'arest — an'  along  in  May,  when  the  smell  of  'em 
comes  in  the  winder — 'bout  sundown — why,  I  can't  say  it 
makes  me  downhearted  'xactly — but  if  I  was  a  woman,  by 
thunder,  I'd  jes'  cry,  I  reckon.  [Smiles.'] 

MADELINE  [going  to  him].  Dear  grandpa — I  won't  leave 
you  alone  so  much  any  more. 

SHANKS.  Nonsense — why,  she's  spent  years  in  Boston  pre- 
parin'  herself.  [To  MADELINE.]  Don't  you  fret  about 
me. 

RANDALL.     You  say  Logan  sat  in  this  chair? 

SHANKS.     Yes;  Fightin'  John. 

RANDALL.    Was  your  son  with  Logan? 

SHANKS.     With  Grant. 

RANDALL.     Killed  at  Vicksburg. 

SHANKS.  You  beared  of  Joey?  [RANDALL  looks  at  MAD 
ELINE.] 

MADELINE.     Yes,  grandpa. 

SHANKS.  Oh —  [Muses.]  Yes,  Vicksburg.  [In  low  under 
tone.] 

RANDALL.     A  hard  siege,  I  believe. 

SHANKS  [annoyed].     Grant  didn't  push  it. 

RANDALL.     Didn't,  eh? 

SHANKS.     No. 

RANDALL.     Tell  me  about  it. 

SHANKS.  It's  all  as  fresh  as  yesterday.  You  see,  the  coun- 
try'd  been  waitin'  for  Grant  ter  do  sumpin'.  [As  the  glint 
of  madness  comes  in  SHANKS'  eyes  MADELINE  puts  her  hands 
together  in  distress.  RANDALL  gestures  silence.] 

RANDALL.     Waitipg  for  Grant — 

SHANKS.  Yes.  So  I  went  down  there  myself.  I  sez  to 
him,  "What's  the  delay,  General?"  I  recollec'  he  was  settin' 
on  a  camp  stool  smokin',  and — 

MADELINE  [goes  to  him].     Grandpa. 

SHANKS   [feeling  her  touch].     Yes,  dear. 


. 


THE  COPPERHEAD  145 

MADELINE.  You  were  here  when  they  brought  Uncle 
Joey's  body  home,  weren't  you?  Here  with  gramma. 

SHANKS.     Yes,  here. 

MADELINE.  Then  you  couldn't  have  been  at  Vicksburg, 
could  you?  [Brushes  his  hair  back.]  That'*  just  the  dream 
again,  grandpa — the  dream. 

SHANKS  [pause.  To  RANDALL].  Ever  have  a  dream  that 
way?  Takes  hold  o'  you  perfect — till  sumpin'  brings  you  out 
of  it. 

RANDALL.     I  know  about  them,  a  little.     Yes. 

SHANKS.  It's  all  right,  dearie.  Excuse  me ;  I'll  be  all 
right  in  a  minute.  [Goes  up  left  fence.] 

MADELINE.  I  had  to  interrupt  him.  It  hurts  me  so  when 
that  delusion  comes  over  him. 

RANDALL.     Ever  violent  with  it? 

MADELINE.  Never — excited  a  little  in  telling  it — I  used  to 
believe  him  when  I  was  a  child. 

RANDALL.     The  son's  death  was  a  blow,  of  course,  but — 

MADELINE.     And  his  wife  at  the  same  time. 

RANDALL.    Wife  died?     [MADELINE  nods.]     Oh! 

MADELINE.     And  neighbors  hostile  because  of  his  politics. 

RANDALL.     I  see. 

MADELINE.  Joey — his  son — enlisted  on  the  Union  side  and 
wouldn't  even  speak  to  grandpa. 

RANDALL.     Well,  that  was  pressure  enough,  God  knows. 

MADELINE.     Take  a  walk  with  me.     [SHANKS  returns.] 

RANDALL.     Yes — if  you  wish  it. 

MADELINE.     I'll  get  a  hat.     [Exit  to  house.] 

SHANKS.  And  yer  letter,  Doctor — kind  o'  excited  me  some 
— brought  back  old  times. 

RANDALL.     Made  you  happy,  I  hope. 

SHANKS.  I  can't  tell  you  how  much.  The  pore  feller's 
been  in  there  thirty-eight  long  years — and  night  and  day  I've 
thought  about  him — been  workin'  on  his  case  thirty  years — 
fifteen  different  legislatures. 

RANDALL.     Still — his  first  sentence  was  death. 

SHANKS.  War  times,  Doctor — and  war-time  hate.  If  he'd 
just  had  on  a  different  suit  of  clothes  when  we  got  inter  that 
fight — he'd  a  been  a  prisoner  o'  war  and  set  free  in  two  years — 
jist  as  Philip  Manning  said  ter  yer  board. 

RANDALL.     Does  Tollard  find  any  of  his  old  friends  living? 


146  THE  COPPERHEAD 

SHANKS.     He  ain't  been  here,  to  my  knowledge. 

RANDALL.     Hasn't? 

SHANKS  [shakes  head].  Your  letter  was  the  first  hint  I 
had  he  was  free. 

RANDALL.     It  must  have  startled  you. 

SHANKS.     Don't  tell  her. 

RANDALL.     I  won't. 

SHANKS.  She  knows  the  folks  here  have  been  aginst  me 
purty  hard — but  I've  kept  all  that  prison  talk  and — sentence  o' 
death  business  out  of  her  life — and  I'm  gonna  see  him  first  an' 
tell  .him  not  ter  talk,  'cause  if  he  ain't  got  any  place  else  to  go, 
I  plan  ter  take  him  in  here — yes,  sir. 

RANDALL  [gives  hand].  You're  a  Christian  gentleman,  Mr. 
Shanks. 

SHANKS  [shakes  hand].  Some  back-slidin' — I  used  horrible 
language  durin'  the  war.  [Enter  GILLESPIE  in  Grand  Army 
uniform,  back  left.] 

GILLESPIE.     Shanks. 

SHANKS  [turns — pauses].     Well,  Newt? 

GILLESPIE.     Busy  ? 

SHANKS.  I've  got  a  friend  visitin'  here.  [Enter  MADE 
LINE.] 

MADELINE.  I'm  going  to  walk  up  and  meet  Mrs.  Man 
ning,  grandpa.  [Sees  GILLESPIE.] 

GILLESPIE  [pause].     That's  her — ain't  it? 

SHANKS.     Madeline — this  is  Mr.  Newt  Gillespie — 

MADELINE.     How  do  you  do,  sir? 

GILLESPIE  [pause].     Elsie's  daughter? 

SHANKS.    Yes. 

GILLESPIE.     I  knowed  yer  grandmother,  young  woman. 

MADELINE.     I  never  saw  her. 

GILLESPIE.  Well,  anybody  'at  ever  did  would  a  knowed  she 
was  your  grandmother.  Don't  lemme  keep  you — because  us 
men  has  some  business. 

MADELINE.  We'll  go,  then — come,  Doctor.  [ DOCTOR 
opens  gate,  exits  with  MADELINE.] 

GILLESPIE.     I  don't  call  on  you  very  of'en,  Milt. 

SHANKS.     No. 

GILLESPIE.     But  I  ain't  like  Hardy — I  ain't  tongue-tied. 

SHANKS.     You  said  business,  Newt — 

GILLESPIE.     The  school  board  votes  to-night — for  a  new 


THE  COPPERHEAD  147 

teacher — my  dotter  has  earned  the  place  by  years  o'  primer 
school  work — and  she's  substituted  satisfactory  in  this  job — 
the  old  settlers  here  ain't  gonna  be  patient  with  any  move  to 
cubflank  her. 

SHANKS.  I  think  it's  gone  too  far  ter  do  anything  but 
leave  it  ter  the  board. 

GILLESPIE.     'Tain't  gone  too  far  fur  your  girl  ter  withdraw. 

SHANKS.     I  kain't  ask  her  to  do  that. 

GILLESPIE.     Oh,  yes,  ye  kin. 

SHANKS.     Well —     [Pause.]     I  won't. 

GILLESPIE.     You  will,  Milt. 

SHANKS.  Well,  just  remember,  Newt — I  didn't  gee  and 
haw  about  it.  I  tell  you  once  for  all — flat-footed — no. 

GILLESPIE  [pause].  Grover  Cleveland's  been  president 
twict — an'  I  ain't  aimin'  ter  dig  up  the  bloody  shirt  agin,  but 
when  little  children  air  under  a  teacher's  influence  murder  ain't 
a  nice  subject  to  have  in  their  minds.  This'll  be  my  argu 
ment  ter  the  school  board  to-night  if  you  compel  me. 

SHANKS  [pause].  I  respect  that  coat  ye  got  on,  Newt,  and 
that  cord  round  yer  hat —  Them  are  naytional — but  it's  a 
mystery  ter  me  sometimes  how  the  war  ever  was  won  with  souls 
as  little  as  yours  is  behind  the  guns. 

GILLESPIE.  I'll  tell  ye,  Milt — an'  yer  welcome  to  repeat 
it.  It's  'cause  the  souls  on  the  other  side  was  the  size  o' 
yourn —  [Pause.]  Now  yer  kin  go  ter  yer  church  Sunday — 
and  sing  "  Fur  sech  a  worm  as  I  " — but  Elsie's  daughter  with 
draws. 

SHANKS  [pause].  'Twasn't  murder,  and  you  know  it. 
They  wair  shootin'  on  both  sides — fast  as  any  pitched  battle. 

GILLESPIE.  That's  all  been  adjudicated  by  the  courts  an* 
one  of  yer  gang  is  still  servin'  a  life  sentence  fur  it  at  Jolliet. 

SHANKS.     No — he's  pardoned  now. 

GILLESPIE.     Lem  Tollard? 

SHANKS.     Yes. 

GILLESPIE.     Who  contrived  that? 

SHANKS.  The  unanimous  pardon  board — that  gentleman 
walkin'  with  Madeline  is  a  member  of  it. 

GILLESPIE.  Pardoned?  [SHANKS  nods.]  Well — that  don't 
hurt  my  argument —  [Chews  excitedly.]  On  the  contrary — 
[Pause.]  An'  it'll  jes'  set  tongues  a  waggin' — I  don't  hev  to 
be  personal  at  all — it'll  be  only  foresighted  fur  the  board  to 


148  THE  COPPERHEAD 

shun  it  in  the  school  house —  Ye've  jist  histed  yerself  with 
yer  own  pattard — I  told  you  you'd  withdraw.  [Enter  LEM, 
right.  He  is  seventy-eight — but  a  fierce  and  burning  seventy- 
eight — sullen  and  patient.'] 

LEM  [inquiring}.     Gillespie! 

GILLESPIE  [pause].     That's  my  name. 

LEM.     ~You  know  me,  don't  you?     [To  SHANKS.] 

SHANKS.  Yes — 'cause  I  been  expectin'  you — but  we're  both 
changed  a  heap — come  in.  [Extends  hand.] 

LEM  [refuses  hand  but  enters].     Expectin'  me? 

SHANKS.     Yes. 

LEM.    Why? 

SHANKS.     Well — you  lived  here — 

LEM.     Not  for  thirty-eight  years  I  ain't — by  God ! 

SHANKS.  I've  kept  count  of  'em  and  I  went  before  every 
legislature  we've  had — an'  ter  every  governor  up  to  this  time. 

LEM.  I  knew  some  bastard  must  a  been  at  work  ter  keep 
me  there.  [Pause.]  Ye  didn't  stay  inside  there  long  yourself, 
did  you? 

SHANKS.  Sorry  yer  bitter  about  it,  Lem — but  I  ain't  found 
much  to  choose  between — outside  or  in — except  the  last  year 
or  so — 

LEM.     You  expected  me — 'cause  I  lived  here. 

SHANKS.    Yes. 

LEM.  Listen  ter  this,  Gillespie — 'cause  it's  gonna  be  im 
portant — and  short —  [Pause.]  I've  come  'cause  you  live 
here — 'cause  I've  figured  out  who  fixed  it  so  the  cavalry  was  in 
them  especial  bushes  waitin'  for  us — I've  figured  why  I  was 
invited  ter  the  arsenal  in  St.  Louis  and  shet  up  till  Camp 
Jackson  was  captured — I've  figured  why  several  plans  of  ours 
come  out  the  little  end  o'  the  horn — figured  it —  Listenin', 
Gillespie? 

GILLESPIE.     I  am. 

LEM.  Now  listen  and  watch,  too — when  I  hand  you  what's 
comin'  to  you,  Milt — it's  gonna  be  in  the  guts.  [Enter  PHILIP 
and  MAINLINE.]  Why?  Because  there  it  ain't  immediate 
and  you  have  time,  God  damn  you,  to  suffer  and  be  sorry. 
[Draws  gun.  PHILIP  has  been  ready  from  word  ee  guts  "  and 
grabs  LEM  from  back] 

MADELINE.     Grandpa —     [Runs  to  SHANKS.] 

PHILIP.     Give  that  to  me!     [Quickly  gets  gun  and  throws 


THE  COPPERHEAD  149 

LEM  from  him  to  ground.  Enter  RANDALL  and  MRS.  MAN 
NING.] 

MRS.  MANNING.     Philip — Philip — what's  the  matter? 

RANDALL.  Tollard — what's  this  mean — your  pardon's  con 
ditional  on  good  behavior. — Now  go.  [TOLLARD  goes  out  gate; 
waits  for  GILLESPIE.] 

GILLESPIE.  I've  heard  his  case — [to  SHANKS]  and  he  ought 
a  killed  you — by  God!  You're  more  a  murderer  than  he  is — 
you  was  sentenced  to  be  hung  and  they  ought  a  hung  you  forty 
years  ago —  [To  MRS.  MANNING.]  School  board!  This  is 
the  kind  o'  scandals  you're  tryin'  to  introduce  with  your  Bos 
ton  idears — 

MADELINE.     To  be  hanged — why,  grandpa — Philip — 

GILLESPIE.  Damned  ole  jailbird — firebrand  and  horse  thief 
and  copperhead!  Once  a  copperhead — always  a  copper 
head —  [Exit.]  # 

SHANKS.  Maddy — Maddy,  dear — it  had  to  come  some 
time — you  got  ter  gimme  a  minute  ter  collect  my  idears.  I 
ain't  afraid  o'  death,  Philip — but  I  couldn't  leave  her  this  way! 


[CURTAIN.] 


ACT  IV 

SCENE 

Cheap  Illinois  rural  interior — but  neat.  The  room  is  rectangu 
lar  except  that  upper  left  corner  is  obliqued  for  a  chimney- 
piece  and  cheap  wood  mantel  of  a  low  ivory  in  color.  The 
back  wall  has  an  exterior  door,  right,  and  window,  left. 
A  second  window  is  up,  right,  in  side  wall. 

A  door  to  kitchen  is  down,  left.  The  wallpaper  is  neutral. 
There  are  hartshorn  blinds  and  cheap  muslin  curtains 
looped  back.  A  much  worn  rug  or  ingrain  carpet — prefer 
ably  rug — covers  entire  floor. 

Combined  bookcase  and  desk,  right.  Desk  is  open  and  full  of 
the  accumulated  scraps  of  years.  Chair  at  desk.  Leaf 
table,  center,  closed  and  covered  with  faded  red  cloth. 
Piano  between  door  and  window.  Two  mid-Victorian 
hair  chairs  at  table.  Rocker  above  fireplace.  Black 
walnut  buffet,  left.  Cheaply  furnished.  The  mantelpiece 
carries  a  Rogers'  group — and  some  China  peasants.  The 
fireplace  has  a  wallpaper  screen  in  it,  a  rusty  iron  fender 
is  in  place,  and  blowers.  In  upper  right  corner  is  a 
furnished  "  whatnot''  The  pictures  on  wall  are  framed 
prints  of  sentimental  stuff.  An  oval  frame  of  walnut 
molding  over  fireplace  holds  photo  of  boy  of  sixteen  in 
Federal  uniform.  Center  table  has  a  lamp.  V oik's  life 
mask  of  Lincoln  hangs  on  mantel  panel  over  fire  opening 
— Lincoln's  hand  is  in  bookcase  desk.  Through  back  door 
is  seen  ceiling  of  porch,  which  may  be  a  small  piece  hung 
to  about  height  of  door.  The  back  drop  beyond  gives  an 
oblique  of  left  side  of  first  set  adjusted  to  angle  of  that 
set — house. 

DISCOVERED 

MADELINE  putting  away  the  supper  dishes  on  dresser.  She 
takes  off  apron  and  brings  writing  material  from  desk  to 
table.  Lights  lamp. 

150 


THE  COPPERHEAD  151 

[MADELINE  turns  at  sound  of  step  on  porch.  PHILIP  ap 
pears.'] 

PHILIP  [pause].    Good  evening. 

MADELINE  [with  restraint].    Good  evening. 

PHILIP.     May  I  come  in? 

MADELINE.     Yes. 

PHILIP  [enters].  Well — that's  something.  [Pause.]  Shake 
hands?  [Extends  hand.] 

MADELINE.     Yes. 

PHILIP.     Feeling  better? 

MADELINE.     Seeing  better,  I  think. 

PHILIP.  Couldn't  be  looking  better — unless  perhaps  you'd 
consent  to  smile. 

MADELINE  [bitterly].  Not  in  this  place.  When  I've  got 
him  away  from  these  people  who  can  carry  hatred  for  a  life 
time — got  him  safe  with  me  in  the  city — perhaps. 

PHILIP.  Only  two  old  geezers  in  their  dotage — ignorant 
and  primitive.  One  of  them  just  turned  loose  from  jail.  Why 
care  about  them? 

MADELINE  [shakes  head].  Colonel  Hardy,  the  biggest  man 
in  the  town,  hasn't  spoken  to  him  in  nearly  forty  years.  And 
to  think  I  was  ignorant  of  the  martyrdom  he  was  suffering! 

PHILIP.     But  it's  over  now,  isn't  it? 

MADELINE.  Is  it?  Who's  been  here  to  see  him  since  it 
happened?  The  afternoon's  gone  by  and  only  the  string  of 
morbid  gossips  gaping  past  the  house. 

PHILIP.     I've  been  here. 

MADELINE.     Your  mother  hasn't. 

PHILIP.     Well,  mother's  peculiar — mother  believes — 

MADELINE  [pause].     In  heredity — 

PHILIP.  Mother  believes  there  are  times  when  people  want 
to  be  alone — besides,  to  tell  the  truth,  that  shindy  of  ours  rather 
shook  mother's  nerves.  She  never  saw  anybody  pull  a  gun 
before — and — 

MADELINE.     Nor  heard  any  one  called  a  murderer. 

PHILIP.  I  fancy  not.  But  mother's  all  right.  She  said: 
"  My  heart  just  aches  for  poor  little  Madeline."  [MADELINE 
sits  and  covers  eyes.]  I  told  her  'twasn't  best  to  pull  much  of 
that — and  you  see  I'm  right.  Don't  cry,  dear,  unless  it  com 
forts  you.  [Pause.]  Must  be  a  deuce  of  a  strain.  [Arm 
about  her.] 


i52  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MADELINE  [moves  away"].    Please  dor/t  do  that. 

PHILIP.  We'-re  engaged,  aren't  weV  [MADELINE  shakes 
her  head.  Pause]:]  Well,  I  am — and  I've  got  witness.  That 
Doctor  friend  ^f  yours  congratulated  me — said  you'd  told 
him. 

MADELINE.     Did  your  mother  congratulate  you? 

PHILIP.     Not  yet — but  she  will. 

MADELINE.     Did  you  tell  her? 

PHILIP  [pauses — shakes  head].  She  heard  the  Doctor. 
[MADELINE  looks  at  him.  Pause.]  I  was  planning  to 
cushion  it — even  if  that  scrap  hadn't  have  happened. 

MADELINE.     Naturally — 

PHILIP.  I  mean  for  any  girl.  When  a  fellow's  an  only 
child  and  his  mother's  a  widow,  she —  [Shakes  head.]  Well, 
for  a  thing  like  this  you  got  to  kind  o'  blindfold  'em  and  back 
Jem  into  it.  Mother  thinks  now  that  I  don't  love  her — 
[shakes  head]  and  I  kind  o'  hoped  I'd  bring  up  my  average 
with  you. 

MADELINE  [pause].  You  may  tell  her  she  has  nothing  to 
fear. 

PHILIP.  Ha!  You  don't  know  my  mother.  When  I  tell 
her  that  you're  making  her  conduct  an  excuse  for  throwing  me 
over,  she'll  be  in  here  asking  you  what  you  mean  by  it.  I 
want  you  to  marry  me  because  you  love  me  and — appreciate 
me,  and  not  just  to  get  rid  of  mother. 

MADELINE  [smiles].     Oh,  Philip! 

PHILIP  [pleased  with  smile].  That's  the  girl  I'm  going  to 
marry. 

MADELINE  [tasting  her  tears].  That's  the  girl  that's — 
breaking  her  heart — because  you're  not. 

PHILIP  [pause].  Why,  Madeline,  I'd  insist  on  your  keep 
ing  your  contract  with  me — if  you'd  been  in  jail.  You  can't 
cancel  it  because  this  story  turns  up  about  your  grandfather. 

MADELINE.  I  saw  the  horror  on  your  mother's  face  when 
grandpa  couldn't  deny  the  stories — copperhead  and  horse  thief 
and  murder  and  penitentiary — 

PHILIP.  But,  Madeline,  some  of  our  best  families  can't 
stand  a  show-down  on  grandfathers.  Why — 

MADELINE.  No,  no — I  love  him  and  I'll  take  him  away 
and  protect  him — but  I  won't  burden  your  career  with  that — 
a  public  man  just  starting — his  success — a — 


THE  COPPERHEAD  153 

PHILIP.     Where  is  your  grandfather  now? 

MADELINE.     In  town  somewhere. 

PHILIP.  I've  got  a  car  out  here.  Come  with  me.  We'll 
pick  him  up  and  a  ride  will  do  you  both  good.  [MADELINE 
shakes  her  head.  A  step  is  heard.  They  turn.  Enter  RAN 
DALL.] 

RANDALL.     Good  evening. 

PHILIP.     How  are  you? 

RANDALL.  I  don't  mean  to  intrude,  but  I've  an  appoint 
ment  here  with  Mr.  Shanks.  [Consults  watch.] 

PHILIP.  I'm  glad  not  to  leave  Madeline  alone,  Doctor. 
[Pause]  That  engagement  on  which  you  congratulated  me  is 
disturbing  her  just  at  present.  I  wish  you'd  tell  her  that  in 
politics  a  man's  father  cuts  very  little  ice  and  when  it  comes 
to  grandfathers,  that  most  of  the  voters  never  had  any.  [To 
MADELINE.]  He'll  tell  you  I'm  right  about  it.  [Exit.] 

MADELINE.     Where  did  you  leave  grandpa? 

RANDALL.  On  his  way  to  Colonel  Hardy's — if  that's  the 
name. 

MADELINE.    Why  there? 

RANDALL  [shakes  head].  Something  about  an  election  to 
night. 

MADELINE.     At  the  school  board? 

RANDALL.     I  think  so. 

MADELINE.  Poor  grandpa.  He  mustn't  be  humiliated  by 
that.  Oh,  dear! 

RANDALL.     What  is  it? 

MADELINE.  I'd  applied  for  the  appointment  as  school 
teacher,  but  I  don't  want  it  now — and  I  wish  grandpa  wouldn't 
say  any  more  about  it. 

RANDALL  [pause].  Our  friend  [nods  off]  says  your  en 
gagement  is  disturbing  you  some  way.  What  does  he  mean? 

MADELINE.     I've  broken  it. 

RANDALL.     On  account  of — this — trouble  to-day? 

MADELINE.     Yes. 

RANDALL  [pause].  'M!  [Pause]  Why,  as  I  remember 
it,  Mr.  Manning  behaved  rather  sympathetically. 

MADELINE.     His  mother  didn't. 

RANDALL.  Well  [pause] — it's  hard  for  me  to  be  an  en 
thusiastic  advocate,  but  maybe  it's  just  as  unfair  to  blame  him 
for  mother  as  it  would  be  to  blame  you  for  grandfather. 


i54  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MADELINE.  She's  never  liked  grandpa.  I  was  only  twelve 
when  she  took  me  away  from  him. 

RANDALL.     She  took  you  ? 

MADELINE.    Well,  sent  me. 

RANDALL.    Why  ? 

MADELINE.  School — and  music  lessons  in  Boston.  Their 
family  comes  from  there. 

RANDALL.     What  was  her  reason? 

MADELINE.  She  heard  me  singing  in  here  as  I  was  washing 
dishes  one  day.  I  must  have  been  bawling,  because  she  stopped 
her  carriage  and  turned  back  and  then  came  in. 

RANDALL.     Did  she  have  her  son  with  her? 

MADELINE.    No. 

RANDALL.  Carriage?  [MADELINE  nods.'}  By  taking  you 
away  from  your  grandfather,  you  mean  that  she  financed  your 
school  period? 

MADELINE.  Yes — and  that's  one  of  the  things  I'm  going 
to  repay.  That  must  have  hurt  grandpa,  too — because  he's 
awfully  fine  and  delicate  about  such  things — but  what's  a  girl 
of  twelve  know?  Can't  you  go  to  Colonel  Hardy's  and  find 
grandpa  ? 

RANDALL.  Yes,  but  let's  be  sure  that's  what  we  want  to 
do.  Don't  you  think  that  unpleasantly  suggests  a  lack  of 
responsibility  and — 

MADELINE.     Yes — of  course — you  mustn't  go — 

RANDALL  [pause].  This — this  indebtedness  you  imply  to 
Mrs.  Manning — was  that — did  that  influence  you  in  entering 
into  this  engagement  with  her  son? 

MADELINE.  Rather  the  other  way — but  that's  over  now. 
She's  been  against  the  other  woman  who  is  applying  for  the 
teacher's  place — against  her  because  her  father,  Mr.  Gillespie, 
is — rather  ordinary — but  grandpa's  education  isn't  any  better — 
and  I  couldn't  [shakes  head] — with  this — this  new  talk  about 
him —  No,  it's  over — over — all  of  that —  [Throws  it  from 
her.] 

RANDALL.  I'm  not  going  to  be  so  gauche  as  to  urge  my 
interest  again — at  a  moment  like  this — but  I  want  you  to  be 
conscious  of  me  as  a  kind  of  rainy  day  proposition — one  of  those 
consolation  backgrounds — like  an  accident  policy  when  one  feels 
the  automobile  skidding. 

MADELINE.     Dear  Doctor,  your  proposals  are  all  so — so — • 


THE  COPPERHEAD  155 

RANDALL.     Indefinite  ? 

MADELINE.  Practical — to  improve  my  voice,  or  live  on  the 
lake  front,  or  guard  against  skidding — but  I  do  like  you. 

RANDALL.  And  my  dear  mother  is  buried — in  Ann  Arbor. 
[Enter  GILLESPIE.] 

GILLESPIE.     Where's  Mr.  Milton  Shanks? 

MADELINE.  He's  not  at  home,  and  I  wouldn't  let  you  see 
him  if  he  were. 

GILLESPIE.  He  left  word  at  my  house  that  if  I  wasn't  a 
coward,  to  come  here  soon  as  I  got  home. 

MADELINE.     Doctor — 

RANDALL.     Well,  we'll  tell  him  you  called. 

GILLESPIE.  I  won't  trouble  you,  stranger.  I'll  wait  for 
him. 

MADELINE.     Not  in  here,  Mr.  Gillespie. 

GILLESPIE.  Sidewalk  suits  me — unless  it's  just  another  cop 
perhead  trick  ter  keep  me  away  from  the  school  board.  I'll 
stay  right  out  here  till  that  meets — and  then  I'll  be  back  agin 
when  it  adjourns — at  the  gate.  [Exit.] 

MADELINE.     Doctor — 

RANDALL.  Nothing  to  fear,  Madeline.  An  old  fellow 
like  that!  Why,  his  wind  goes  at  the  first  real  exertion.  Be 
sides —  [Voices  outside.  PHILIP  and  GILLESPIE.] 

MADELINE.  Grandpa —  [Runs  to  door — RANDALL  with 
her.] 

RANDALL.     Mr.  Manning  again. 

GILLESPIE  [outside].  Half  a  dozen  fellers  heered  him.  By 
God,  I  never  tuk  a  dare  from  a  copperhead  in  the  army  times. 

RANDALL.     Your  grandfather  isn't  there.     Come  away. 

MADELINE.  I  can't  stand  any  more  fuss.  [PHILIP  and 
MRS.  MANNING  appear.] 

PHILIP.  Here's  mother,  Madeline.  I'll  be  right  back  my 
self.  [Exit.  MRS.  MANNING  enters.] 

MRS.  MANNING.     Madeline! 

MADELINE.     Mrs.  Manning — 

MRS.  MANNING.  Dear  Madeline,  you  don't  doubt  my  af 
fection  for  you? 

MADELINE.  'Tisn't  a  question  of  that,  Mrs.  Manning.  I 
know  your  pride,  too.  I'm  not  going  to  shame  it. 

MRS.  MANNING.  Philip  wants  us  to  go  on  as  though  noth 
ing  had  happened — and  wants  us  not  to  let  this  business  stam- 


i56  THE  COPPERHEAD 

pede  our  meeting  to-night.  The  whole  matter  can  be  put  over 
a  week.  Philip's  a  lawyer  and — 

MADELINE.     What  can  a  week  change,  if  it's  all  true? 

MRS.  MANNING.     Perhaps  it  isn't. 

MADELINE.     Perhaps  it  is.     Grandpa  hasn't  denied  it. 

MRS.  MANNING.     He  hasn't? 

MADELINE.     No.     [Voices  outside.] 

SHANKS  [voice  emerging].  Yes,  I  said  so.  Come  in, 
Philip. 

RANDALL.  That's  Mr.  Shanks.  [SHANKS  and  PHILIP  ap 
pear.} 

SHANKS.  Inside,  Gillespie —  [PHILIP  enters  and  goes  to 
MADELINE,  ^vho  avoids  him — down  left.]  Inside —  [Enters. 
GILLESPIE  enters.  SHANKS  looks  about  at  others — hesitates] 

GILLESPIE.  If  I  wasn't  a  coward,  I'd  come.  Well,  I'm 
here. 

SHANKS.     I've  asked  Colonel  Hardy  to  come  here. 

PHILIP.     Mr.  Shanks! 

SHANKS.     Yes,  Philip. 

PHILIP  [impulsively].     There's  my  hand,  sir. 

SHANKS  [taking  hand].     Yes. 

PHILIP  [pause].  You  can  tell  whether  I  like  you  or  not, 
can't  you? 

SHANKS  [in  pain  of  grasp].  Yes,  Philip — I  kin — but  don't 
keep  it  up  any  longer'n  you  haf  to.  [Straightens  his  cramped 
fingers] 

MRS.  MANNING.  I've  just  got  to  be  straightforward  with 
you,  Mr.  Shanks. 

SHANKS.     Best  way — allers — if  ye  kin — straightf orward ! 

MRS.  MANNING.  Were  you  ever — convicted  on  a  criminal 
charge  ? 

SHANKS  [pause.    Nods].     Once. 

MRS.  MANNING.     That  man  said  the  penitentiary. 

GILLESPIE.     An'  I  said  so,  too. 

MRS.  MANNING.  I  hate  to  add  a  moment  to  your  unhap- 
piness,  Mr.  Shanks.  [Pause,  during  which  SHANKS  suffers 
quietly]  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  concede  that  there  was  some 
mistake  about  it — that  you  were  probably  innocent  of  the 
charge,  but — 

SHANKS  [shakes  head].  No,  I  took  'em — me  and  some 
other  fellers  workin'  for  the  South.  Them  was  war  times, 


THE  COPPERHEAD  157 

recollec',  an'  they  wanted  the  horses  fur  John  Moseby  in  Ken 
tucky.  'F  I'd  been  in  the  army,  it'd  been  all  right,  but  I  was — 
I  wasn't  in  the  army.  [Pause.]  So —  [Throws  up  his 
hands.] 

MRS.  MANNING.  You  must  believe  I  haven't  meant  to 
hurt  you,  Mr.  Shanks! 

SHANKS.     Course.     Yer  jist  thinkin'  about  yer  boy. 

MRS.  MANNING.     That's  all. 

PHILIP.     Never  mind  about  me. 

SHANKS.  That's  all  'at  matters  now.  I  don't  care  about 
myself.  Two  other  fellers  was  convicted  'long  with  me.  One 
of  'em's  gone  now;  you  saw  the  other  one  to-day — so  I  don't 
have  to  say  anything  fur  them.  But  I  would —  Folks  called 
'em  "  copperheads,"  but  they  thought  they  was  workin'  fur 
their  country,  same  as  folks  on  the  other  side.  Grant  under 
stood.  He  gave  every  feller  his  side-arms  and  his  hoss  at  Ap- 
pomattox.  Grant  said :  "  You'll  need  the  bosses,  boys,  to  plant 
yer  crops."  That's  what  Abe  Lincoln  would  o'  said,  too. 
Er —  [Pause.]  Sorry,  Philip  [pause] — awful  sorry. 

PHILIP  [hands  on  SHANKS'  shoulders].  Over  fifty  years 
ago,  Mr.  Shanks.  It's  a  damned  shame  to  dig  it  up  now. 
There's  a  moral  statute  of  limitations  and  I  hope  that  in  fifty 
years  I'll  have  as  clean  a  heart.  [Strikes  SHANKS  on  breast.] 

SHANKS  [pause  and  tender  regard].  Taller'n  me.  He — 
he  used  to  put  his  hands  on  my  shoulders.  I  wish  Hardy'd 
come — but  there's  somethin'  we  kin  do  while  we're  waitin'. 
[He  goes  to  desk — gets  old  revolver  in  paper,  unwraps  it. 
There  is  a  tag  which  his  grasp  hides.] 

MRS.  MANNING.     Is  that  loaded? 

SHANKS.     Four  barrels — yes. 

GILLESPIE.     I  didn't  bring  any  gun. 

SHANKS.  You  kin  have  this  one,  Newt.  [To  MADELINE.] 
Dearie,  git  the  corkscrew  for  me.  [MADELINE  goes  for  old 
folding  corkscrew  in  buffet.]  Philip. 

PHILIP.     Mr.  Shanks. 

SHANKS.  At  my  trial,  this  was  marked  Exhibit  B.  Two 
barrels  fired.  The  rest  are  just  as  we  left  'em.  Take  that 
corkscrew,  Philip,  and  pull  out  the  wads  and  the  powder, 
'cause  they  never  was  any  bullets  in  'em.  I  didn't  say  that  at 
the  trial,  'cause  I — didn't  want  to  lay  the  blame  all  on  the 
others — but  I  ain't  a  murderer,  Madeline. 


i58  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MADELINE.     Of  course  you  aren't,  dear. 

GILLESPIE.  You've  had  thirty-eight  years  ter  git  out  the 
bullets  yerself. 

SHANKS.  That's  so — and  I  only  want  to  convince  Made 
line  about  that.  I've  never  told  her  a  story. 

PHILIP.     I  believe  you,  too. 

GILLESPIE.  Well,  I  don't — and  it's  time  fur  your  school 
board  meetin',  Mrs.  Manning.  [Enter  HARDY.] 

SHANKS.  Come  in,  Colonel  Hardy,  come  in,  sir.  Sit 
down,  Mrs.  Manning.  A  short  horse  is  soon  curried,  and  my 
business  won't  keep  the  men  standin'  long.  [HARDY  comes 
down,  bowing  to  company]  Sit  down,  Maddy,  dear — you  kin 
Stan'  by  her,  Philip.  [Pause  as  group  arranges  itself.]  Doc 
tor  Randall.  [Pause.]  Philip.  [Pause.  Defers  to  MRS. 
MANNING  slightly]  Colonel  Hardy  and  me  was  boys  to 
gether.  Our  Congressman  give  me  an  appointment  to  West 
Point,  but  Tom  Hardy  ought  a  o'  had  it.  Besides,  'twasn't 
convenient  for  me  to  go  to  West  Point  jest  then,  so  I  resigned 
it  fur  him.  'Fore  that,  we  went  together  to  a  school  where 
Abe  Lincoln  come  and  talked  to  us.  We  both  knowed  him 
from  that  time  on  until  he  was  elected  President — ain't  that 
so,  Colonel  Hardy? 

HARDY  [severely].     Yes. 

SHANKS  [gets  mask  from  mantel,  blows  dust  from  it]. 
Lincoln!  We  was  together  at  his  house,  'fore  he  started  for 
Washington.  A  sculpture  man  was  there  to  take  a  plaster 
Paris  model  of  his  face.  Most  folks  think  this  is  a  after  death 
thing,  but  Colonel  Hardy  and  me  saw  it  took — jes'  throwed 
the  soft  plaster  on  his  face  and  let  it  git  hard.  Lincoln  sittin' 
in  a  armchair,  like  you  are.  [To  MRS.  MANNING.]  In  this 
box  [gets  it  from  desk] — where  I  have  my  letters  and  keep 
sakes — is  a  model  of  Lincoln's  hand — the  hand  that  wrote  the 
emancipation  of  slavery.  [Pause]  The  sculpture  man  sent 
me  these  hisself,  so  they're  genuine.  That  stick's  a  piece  of 
broom  handle  Lincoln  sawed  off  while — Volk  [reads  name 
on  cast] — that  was  the  sculpture  feller's  name — while  Volk  was 
mixin'  plaster  in  a  washbowl.  [Shows  hand  by  his  own] 
Bigger  man'n  me,  every  way.  [Pause]  All  of  the  statues  of 
Lincoln  nowadays  is  copied  from  this  [pause] — so,  you  see,  we 
knowed  him.  [Pause]  Then  the  war  broke  out.  Hardy  tuk 
a  vow  to  support  his  country,  I  took  one  to  destroy  it.  Hardy's 


THE  COPPERHEAD  159 

company  marched  off — my  Joey,  only  sixteen,  along  with  'em. 
iHis  mother  leant  agin  the  fence  an'  the  women  fanned  her — 
an',  my  God — he  looked  like  a  soldier!  [Regards  picture — 
suggests  march.  To  PHILIP.]  You  was  probably  thinner  at 
sixteen  yerself. 

PHILIP.    Yes — I  was. 

SHANKS.  I  was  peekin'  from  some  bushes — cud  o'  almost 
teched  him  as  they  marched  by  [pause] — blue  eyes —  [To 
MRS.  MANNING.  Paused]  His  mother  never  said  a  word — 
cried  quite  a  spell.  Well,  us  Knights  o'  the  Golden  Circle — 

GILLESPIE.     Copperheads — 

SHANKS  [pause].  Golden  Circle — we  sent  help  to  the 
South — all  we  could — and  we  pizened  cattle,  and  I  went  to 
Richmond — Virginy — twict.  Time  went  on  an'  Vicksburg 
come  and  one  night  a  feller  galloped  into  town  hyar  and 
hitched.  "  When'd  you  hear  from  Joe  ?  "  sez  he.  "  Last  week," 
I  sez.  "How  was  he?"  sez  he,  a-foolin'  round  tightenin'  up 
his  girth.  "All  right,"  sez  I,  and  he  sez:  "Joe's  dead." 
[Pause.  To  MADELINE.]  I  kin  see  yer  gramma  yet,  a-cryin* 
by  the  well,  pettin'  the  corner  of  it  where  Joey'd  been.  Bym' 
by,  I  leant  over  to  tech  her,  but  she  drawed  away,  a-tremblin' 
and  a-sayin':  "For  Gawd's  sake,  Milt  Shanks,  yer  unclean!" 
[Pause.  To  MRS.  MANNING.]  His  mother  [pause] — two 
or  three  days  she  was  pinin' — with  her  face  agin  the  letters 
he'd  wrote  home,  and  then —  [Pause.]  At  the  church — in 
stead  of  the  trouble  I  expected  from  the  neighbors,  they  was  all 
strange-like  an'  kind,  'cept  when  I  went  to  look  in  the  black 
coffin  under  the  flag,  where  Joey  was.  Newt  Gillespie  took 
me  by  the  arm  and —  [Pause,]  You  tell  'em,  Newt,  what 
you  said  to  me. 

GILLESPIE.     I  hev  told  'em — more'n  once. 

SHANKS.     Tell  her.     She  never  heered  it. 

GILLESPIE.     I'd  give  my  word  'fore  he  died. 

SHANKS  [to  MADELINE].     His  word  to  Joey. 

GILLESPIE.  Yes.  He  said :  "  If  you  take  me  back,  don't 
let  him  see  me.  If  he  on'y  fought  on  the  other  side,  I'd  o' 
been  proud,  even  if  he'd  been  the  one  that  shot  me — but  no 
copperhead."  An'  I  did.  Right  in  the  church,  I  jes'  tuk  him 
by  the  arm  and  said :  "  It  was  his  particular  last  request — " 
quiet-like,  as  I'm  talkin'  now,  and  led  him  out  o'  the  church. 
An',  by  God,  I'd  do  it  agin! 


160  THE  COPPERHEAD 

MADELINE.    Oh,  grandpa! 

SHANKS.  That  left  only  little  Elsie,  yer  ma — an'  she  was 
so  little  I  couldn't  leave  her  alone,  and  I  was  carryin'  her  on 
my  arm.  Newt  Gillespie  was  the  only  man  'at  spoke  to  me — 
and  in  the  whole  United  States — yes,  in  the  whole  world — 
only  one  man  wrote  to  me.  [Pause.]  I  kep'  his  letter — 
natural —  [Gets  letter  from  box.]  I'm  gonna  ask  Colonel 
Hardy  ter  read  it.  [Takes  letter  from  old  flag  and  hands  it, 
open,  to  HARDY.]  Careful,  Colonel.  It's  a  keepsake  with  me. 
An'  then  that's  all  I've  got  to  say.  If  'twasn't  fur  Madeline 
and  Philip — and  I  know  they're  lovin'  each  other  and  sep- 
aratin' — 

HARDY.  My  God!  Who's  crazy — you  or  I —  Milt 
Shanks!  Milt  Shanks! 

RANDALL.    What  is  it,  Colonel? 

SHANKS.     Read  it,  Colonel  Hardy. 

HARDY  [reads] .  "  Executive  Mansion,  Washington,  April 
nth,  1865.  Mr.  Milton  Shanks,  Millville.  Dear  Milt: 
Lee's  surrender  ends  it  all.  I  cannot  think  of  you  without 
a  sense  of  guilt,  but  it  had  to  be.  I  alone  knew  what 
you  did — and,  even  more,  what  you  endured.  I  cannot  reward 
you — man  cannot  reward  anything  worth  while — there  is  only 
One  who  can.  I  send  you  a  flag  handkerchief.  [SHANKS  un 
consciously  touches  the  flagJ]  It  is  not  new,  but  you  will  prize 
it  the  more  for  that.  I  hope  to  shake  your  hand  some  time. 
Your  friend,  A.  Lincoln." 

SHANKS.  Colonel,  do  you  recollec'  the  time  you  druv  me 
to  the  train  in  March  o'  sixty-one? 

HARDY.     Very  well.    You  went  to  look  at  cattle. 

SHANKS.  That's  what  I  told  you.  I  wuz  called  to  Wash 
ington  by  Lincoln,  an'  two  days  later,  at  night,  in  his  library — 
White  House — he  walked  over  to'erd  a  winder,  and,  without 
turnin'  round,  he  says:  "Milt — "  [Pause.]  Funny  I  remem 
ber  a  clock  tickin'  on  the  mantelpiece —  [Pause.]  I  sez: 
"  Mr.  President — "  [Pause.]  "  Milt,  how  much  do  you 
love  yer  country?"  [Pause.]  "I  cahilate  I'd  die  for  it,"  I 
sez.  [Shakes  head.]  "  Thousands  o'  boys  is  a-cryin'  to  do 
that."  Then  he  turned  round.  "  Would  you  give  up  sumpin' 
more'n  life?"  [Pause.]  "Try  me,"  I  sez.  The  President 
run  his  hands  through  his  hair  an'  went  on :  "  It  means  to  be 
odious  in  the  eyes  of  men  and  women — ter  eat  yer  heart  out — 


THE  COPPERHEAD  161 

alone — fur  you  can'4  tell  yer  wife — ner  chile — ner  friend." 
[Pause.]  "  Go  on,'  I  sez.  [Pause.]  "  The  Southern  sym 
pathizers  are  organh  ing  in  our  State — really  worse  than  the 
soldiers.  I  want  yo>  ter  jine  them  Knights  o'  the  Golden 
Circle — ter  be  one  o^them — their  leader,  if  you  kin.  I  need 
you,  Milt.  Yer  country  needs  you."  [Pause.]  Hadn't  been 
two  minutes  since  he  was  laffin',  but  he  lifted  his  hands,  and  it 
seemed  we  wuz  the  only  folks  in  the  world  [pause] — and  that 
clock  [pause] — funny  I  remember  that.  [Pause.]  "  I'll  do 
it,"  I  sez.  [Pause.]  He  tuk  a  little  flag  out  o'  his  pocket — 
like  as  not  this  very  one — put  it  on  the  table  like  I'm  puttin' 
it.  [Pause.]  "  As  Chief  Magistrate  of  the  nation,  I'll  muster 
you  inter  the  nation's  service,"  he  said.  He  laid  my  hand 
where  the  blue  is  and  all  the  stars,  and  put  his  hand  over  mine. 
[Business  suggested  with  cast.]  Only  open,  of  course  [uses 
his  own  hand] — and  said  nothin'  [pause.  Nods.] — jes'  looked 
in  my  eyes — an'  looked —  [Pause.]  Well,  I  jined  'em. 
[Pause.]  It  was  terrible,  when  I  couldn't  tell  the  boy  [looks 
at  PHILIP] — when  he  marched  off.  [To  MRS.  MANNING.] 
Sixteen,  you  know — blue  eyes —  [Pause.  MADELINE  takes 
his  hand  and  kisses  it.  The  action  startles  him  a  little.]  It 
ruined  the  Governor  that  pardoned  me  out  o'  Joliet,  where  I 
was  convicted  to — but  I've  allers  figured  he  had  his  orders 
from  Washington — same  as  me — an'  couldn't  talk  about  it. 
An'  even  when  Vicksburg  come,  and  Joey  was  dead,  why,  the 
war  wasn't  over. 

HARDY.  But,  damn  it,  in  all  these  years  we've  despised  you, 
why  haven't  you  told? 

SHANKS.  Told  who?  Couldn't  tell  Joey  or  his  mother, 
and,  with  them  gone — tellin'  anybody  seemed  so — so  useless. 
Only  now,  when  it's  separatin'  her  an'  Philip  an'  spoilin'  her 
election — in  the  school  board — 

HARDY.  Her  election!  Why,  damn  it,  that  story'd  elect  a 
wooden  Indian!  [GILLESPIE  grabs  SHANKS'  coat.] 

RANDALL.     What  are  you  doing? 

GILLESPIE.     Take  that  off.     This  coat  don't  belong  on  me. 

SHANKS.     Newt — not  yer  Grand  Army  coat? 

GILLESPIE.  Git  in  it!  Here's  the  hat.  [Goes  to  door, 
carrying  SHANKS'  coat.]  Bring  him  to  that  meetin'.  I'm  a 
damn  fool,  but,  by  God,  I  ain't  no  skunk!  [Exit.] 

MADELINE.     Oh,  grandpa! 


162  THE  COPPERHEAD 

SHANKS  [loving  the  coat}.     The  blue- 

RANDALL.     The  hat,  Mr.  Shanks! 

SHANKS.  An'  a  cord  round  it.  If  thej*  was  only  a  lookin' 
glass.  \ 

MRS.  MANNING.  Come,  Colonel.  [ HARDY  crosses  to 
SHANKS — returns  the  letter.  The  two  men  join  hands  in 
speechless  emotion  a  moment.] 

SHANKS  [forgiving].  Tom!  [HARDY  pats  SHANKS'  shoul 
der  and  moves  on.  With  flag]  All  right,  now,  to  carry  this, 
ain't  it? 

PHILIP.     I  should  say  it  was! 

SHANKS.  God!  It's  wonderful — [pauses  and  inhales]  to 
hev  friends  agin!  [Goes.  PHILIP  takes  MADELINE  in  his 
arms — MRS.  MANNING  watching  them  from  right.] 


[CURTAIN.] 


DULCY  * 
A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 

By 
GEORGE  S.  KAUFMAN 

and 

MARC  CONNELLY 
(With  a  Bow  to  Franklin  P.  Adams)  * 


*  Copyright,  1921,  by  George  S.  Kaufman  and  Marc  Connelly. 

Dulcy  is  reprinted  in  this  volume  by  the  kind  permission  of  G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  the  original  publishers.  All  dramatic  rights  are  con 
trolled  by  George  C.  Tyler,  New  Amsterdam  Theatre  Building,  New 
York.  It  may  not  be  acted,  either  by  professional  or  amateur  com 
panies,  without  permission  and  the  payment  of  royalty. 

1  The  editor  thanks  F.  P.  A.  for  permission  genially  granted  to 
"take  anything  you  like"  from  The  Tower. 


There  is  hardlv  any  kind  of  source,  novels,  poetry,  chronicle 
histories,  biographies,  or  old  plays  that  Shakespeare  did  not 
draw  upon  for  his  plots,  his  characters,  his  local  color,  and 
even  his  great  passages  of  poetry;  but  since  modern  journalism 
dates  only  from  the  eighteenth  century,  and  feature  journalism 
developed  in  the  nineteenth  century,  and  "  colyumists "  have 
flourished  and  multiplied  only  in  the  twentieth,  it  is  safe  to 
assert  that  George  S.  Kaufman  and  Marc  Connelly  were 
strictly  original  in  using  the  "  Dulcinea "  of  Franklin  P. 
Adams  for  dramatic  purposes. 

Within  easy  recollection,  Mr.  Adams  has  conducted  columns 
in  three  New  York  newspapers,  The  New  York  Mail,  The 
New  York  Tribune,  and  The  World.  There  have  been  other 
notable  column  conductors,  beginning  with  Eugene  Field,  who 
was  the  first  one,  and  coming  down  to  Bert  Leston  Taylor,  for 
whose  posthumous  collection  of  poems  F.  P.  A.  has  written  such 
a  gay  and  touching  foreword.  Then  there  is  Don  Marquis, 
who  presides  over  The  Sun  Dial  in  The  Sun.  There  are 
other  favorites,  too,  in  various  parts  of  the  United  States.1 

To  the  present  generation  of  readers,  it  seems  fairly  evident 
that  future  historians  of  "  columning "  in  America  will  rank 
high  among  the  brilliant  achievements  of  Don  Marquis  the 
delineation  of  that  inimitable  lady  of  intellectual  pretensions, 
Hermione,  and  her  "  Little  Group  of  Serious  Thinkers." 
Hermione  was  born  and  grew  to  full  artistic  maturity  in  The 
Sun  Dial;  and  the  same  historians  will  place  on  a  neighboring 
pinnacle  Dulcinea,  who  in  June,  1914,  sprang  fully  panoplied 
in  platitudes  to  a  place  of  power  and  position  in  The  Conning 
Tower,  the  column  conducted  by  F.  P.  A.  in  The  New  York 
Tribune. 

So  many  beastly  things  happened  in  the  summer  of  1914 
that  it  is  pleasant  to  stop  and  contemplate  the  emergence  of 
laughter-provoking  Dulcinea.  On  June  4,  1914,  there  ap 
peared  the  following  item  in  The  Conning  Tower: 

1  Other  well  known  "  colyumists "  are  Edwin  Meade  Robinson, 
Christopher  Morley,  Judd  Mortimer  Lewis,  S.  Jay  Kaufman,  S.  E. 
Kiser,  Kenneth  C.  Beaton,  and  Frank  Stanton. 

165 


1 66  DULCY 


"PROBABLY   FANNING    ONLY   MAKES   HER  WARMER 

How  are  Don  Juan's  dates  for  this  week?  I'd  like  to  take  him  to 
Dulcinea's  Del  Taboso's  for  tea  smafternoon  and  let  her  spring  '  You 
know,  hot  tea  is  really  more  cooling  than  iced  tea  in  warm  weather' 
on  him." 

Dulcy  was  followed  up  the  next  day  in  a  series  of  items  like 
this: 

"IT  ISN'T  THE  PLACE,  THOUGH,  IT'S  THE  PEOPLE 

SIR:  Tell  Don  Juan  I  can  produce  one  upon  a  day's  notice  guar 
anteed  to  say:  'I  want  to  go  somewheres  where  it's  quiet,  this 
summer.' " 

and 

"OH,  IT'S  A  FINE  TOWN  TO  VISIT  BUT  NO  PLACE  TO 

LIVE  IN 

SIR:  Dulcinea  tells  me  she  knows  Don  Juan,  and  that  he  told  her 
New  York,  for  a  man,  is  really  as  comfortable  a  place  as  any  to 
spend  the  summer." 

Three  days  later,  F.  P.  A.  printed  more  interpretations 
under  the  heading: 

"  DULCINEA  AND  THE  BROMIDAN  TOUCH 

M.  L.  E.  Each  Spring  she  says:  'I  like  to  do  Coney  Island  just 
once  every  summer,  and  that's  enough.' 

SARTOR.  Perhaps  she  '  lives  in  Europe,  but  only  exists  in  Amer 
ica.' 

HELEN.  I  know  her.  She  *  doesn't  care  for  money  for  its  own 
sake — only  for  what  it  will  buy.' 

R.  C.  M.  'You  don't  need  to  care  much  what  kind  of  people  are 
there,  Dulcinea,  if  you  have  your  own  crowd.' 


We  feel  certain  that  Dulcinea  doesn't  care  much  about  what  kind 
of  room  she  gets  at  that  summer  resort.  *  One  is  never  in  one's  room 
except  to  sleep,  you  know.' " 

Presently  F.  P.  A.  was  having  Dulcinea  send  to  The  Con 
ning  Tower  letters  describing  her  stay  at  Bromidlewild.  She 
would  write,  for  example: 


DULCY  167 

"At  Bromidlewild  they  have  had   some  new  stationery  designed. 
The  shield  shows  a  bromide  tablet,  dormant  on  a  field  of  parsnips. 


Motto:    Dulcy  far  niente." 

or 

"  Last  night  was  one  of  those  nights  in  the  country  that  makes  you 
feel  so  sad,  you  don't  know  why.  So  I  went  up  to  my  room  and 
read  some  poetry.  Don't  you  just  love  Poe?  His  poems  are  so 
musical,  especially  'The  Bells,'  and  'The  Raven'  is  a  wonderful 
thing.  He  must  have  been  awfully  distressed  to  have  written  that. 
It  might  seem  funny  to  you,  but  I've  always  thought  he  had  his  own 
life  in  mind  when  he  wrote  and  that  it  is  symbolic  of  his  passion  for 
drink  and  the  remorse  that  followed.  Then  again  there's  Browning, 
— so  entirely  different,  but  so  true  to  life." 

F.  P.  A.  even  allowed  Dulcinea  to  attempt  her  own  Horatian 
paraphrase,  here  reprinted: 

« IN  A  MANNER  OF  WRITING 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  38. 

'  Persicos  odi,  puer,  apparatus — ' 

By  Our  Own  Dulcinea 

Honestly,  Fred,  I  simply  detest  the  new  Persian  styles.  And  I 
can't  bear  those  linden-tree  hats.  And  don't,  please,  Fred,  go  looking 
for  expensive  American  Beauty  roses.  I  like  plain  myrtle  heaps 
better.  It's  the  intention;  not  the  cost  of  a  gift,  I  always  say. 

I'd  rather  have  a  glass  of  cold  water,  too,  than  all  the  fancy 
drinks  in  the  world. 

Good-by!     Be  good." 

On  July  4,  1914,  the  following  prophetic  notice  appeared 
in  The  Conning  Tower: 

"THE  SAILING  AWAY  OF  G.  S.  K. 

SIR:  I  told  Dulcinea  I'd  be  in  England  and  she  said  to  give  her 
regards  to  the  king.  .  .  .  Imagine  me  with  five  weeks  of  Towers  to 
read  when  I  come  back!  [Exit  laughingly.]  G.  S.  K." 

On  July  7,  another  contributor  wrote  as  follows: 

"SIR:  Dulcinea  and  I  went  down  to  see  G.  S.  K.  off  on  the  Kroon- 
land.  She  thought  the  slow  boats  were  lots  more  fun,  the  fast  trips 


i68  DULCY 

don't  seem  like  really  crossing  the  pond  at  all.  She  wanted  to  know 
if  I  didn't  wish  /  was  going  too,  but  thought  she'd  rather  see  Amer 
ica  first.  .  .  .  The  officers'  uniforms  were  awfully  handsome,  and 
she  thought  a  sailor's  life  must  be  awfully  healthy,  always  out  in 
the  salt  air.  But  they  say  they're  terribly  superstitious." 

%• 

So  we  arrive  finally  at  the  meeting  of  Dulcinea  and  G.  S.  K.,  as 
George  S.  Kaufman  is  known,  when  he  writes  as  contributor 
to  F.  P.  A.'s  The  Conning  Tower. 

In  August,  1920,  George  C.  Tyler,  the  manager,  needed  a 
comedy  for  Lynn  Fontanne,  Ellen  Terry's  charming  pupil.  Mr. 
Tyler  invited  George  S.  Kaufman  and  Marc  Connelly  to 
write  a  play  for  this  English  actress.  Only  ten  characters  were 
to  be  introduced.  The  authors  exceeded  this  limit  by  one. 
To  quote  Mr.  Kaufman,  "  We  had  a  great  break  of  luck  with 
it — the  various  parts  fell  into  place  all  in  one  Sunday  after 
noon.  It  was  written  in  less  than  five  weeks  in  the  belief 
that  it  would  go  into  rehearsal  immediately.  That  was  August 
of  1920.  The  theatre  shortage  held  us  up  until  February  of 
the  following  year,  when  the  play  opened  in  Chicago." 

Both  authors  are  journalists.  Marc  Connelly  comes  from 
Pittsburgh,  where  he  did  newspaper  work  for  six  or  seven 
years,  during  the  last  one  of  which  he  conducted  a  humorous 
column  in  The  Gazette  Times.  He  has  lived  in  New  York 
ever  since.  Mr.  Connelly  is  a  reporter  on  The  Morning 
Telegraph,  has  done  a  number  of  Sunday  stories  for  The  New 
York  Times  and  other  papers,  and  has  been  a  frequent  con 
tributor  to  Life. 

George  S.  Kaufman  was  also  born  in  Pittsburgh,  in  1889, 
a  year  before  Mr.  Connelly.  They  both  studied  in  public 
schools  in  Pennsylvania.  At  one  time  Mr.  Kaufman  thought 
of  becoming  a  lawyer,  but  he  found  the  law  "  too  dry." 
Mr.  Kaufman  is  now  in  the  dramatic  department  of  The 
New  York  Times.  He  has  in  the  past  been  connected  with 
The  New  York  Tribune,  The  New  York  Mail  and  The 
Washington  Times,  conducting  columns  on  the  last  two. 
On  these  various  newspapers,  he  has  also  been  reporter,  rewrite 
man,  and  copy  writer.  "  Incidentally,"  Mr.  Kaufman  confesses, 
"  as  Dulcy  herself  might  say,  the  newspaper  training  is  elegant 
for  stage  writing — it  teaches  you  not  to  repeat." 

As  a  matter  of  poetic  justice,  one  more  fact  should  be  chron 
icled  in  connection  with  Dulcy.  On  February  20,  1922,  an- 


DULCY  169 

other  comedy  in  three  acts  by  George  S.  Kaufman  and  Marc 
Connelly,  called  To  the  Ladies,  was  produced  at  the  Liberty 
Theatre  in  New  York.  In  this  play,  according  to  the  appre 
ciative  reviewers  in  the  Calendar  of  The  New  York  Drama 
League,  "  the  authors  of  Dulcy  have  given  us  another  bright, 
clean,  hilarious  comedy.  They  have  turned  the  tables,  and 
in  the  place  of  the  bungling,  bromidic  wife  tangling  up  the 
affairs  of  a  self-reliant  husband,  we  see  a  quick-witted  little 
wife  smoothing  out  the  ineptitudes  of  a  conceited  blockhead 
of  a  husband." 


DULCY 


CHARACTERS 

Produced   by   George    C.    Tyler   and   H.   H.   Frazee,    at  the    Cort 
Theatre,  Chicago,  February  20,  1921,  with  the  following  cast: 

DULCINEA : t. .  Lynn  Fontanne 

GORDON  SMITH,  her  husband  ...... .,.  John  Westley 

WILLIAM  PARKER,  her  brother Gregory  Kelly 

C.  ROGER  FORBES Walter  Clark 

MRS.  FORBES Constance  Pelissier 

ANGELA  FORBES  . . Norma  Lee 

SCHUYLER  VAN  DYCK Gilbert  Douglas 

TOM  STERRETT,  advertising  engineer  .Elliott  Nugent 
VINCENT  LEACH,  scenarist  .........  Howard  Lindsay 

BLAIR  PATTERSON ,..,..,..,..  George  Alison 

HENRY Harry  Lillford 

Produced  at  the  Frazee  Theatre,  New  York,  August  13,  1921,  with 
the  same  cast. 

ACT  I 

The  scene  is  the  living-room  in  the  suburban  home  of  DUL 
CINEA  and  her  husband — in  Wesichester  County,  within 
commuting  distance  of  New  York.  -It  is  a  room  that  is 
splashing  rather  than  merely  striking.  The  furniture,  for 
no  particular  reason,  is  old  Italian,  but  most  of  it  is  hid 
den  beneath  beautiful  and  variously  colored  batiks  and 
dmpes.  Over  the  divan,  for  example,  is  a  golden  brocade, 
and  on  it  three  blue  pillows.  Across  the  grand  piano  is 
a  red  drape,  and  on  it  a  blue  book.  The  window  cur 
tains  are  also  of  blue;  there  are  two  or  three  striking 
lamps  in  the  background,  and  the  tinted  walls  are  cov 
ered  here  and  there  by  a  couple  of  good-looking  tapestries. 
There  are  no  pictures,  for  DULCINEA  is  nothing  if  not 
modern.  On  a  platform  at  the  rear,  where  the  stairs 
begin  to  ascend,  stands  a  great  blue  urn,  filled  with  hydran- 
170 


DULCY  171 

geas.  On  a  cabinet  at  one  side  is  an  iridescent  bowl 
containing  tea  roses;  at  each  side  of  the  cabinet  stands 
a  floor  candlestick  of  Italian  design.  In  a  word,  the 
room  is  DULCY.  //  there  were  a  telephone  DULCY  would 
have  it  covered  with  a  cute  little  doll — but  this  is  a  play 
without  a  telephone. 

In  addition  to  the  stairs  there  are  three  means  of  exit — at  the 
rear  are  French  windows  which  open  onto  the  lawn  and 
DULCY'S  cherished  garden;  at  the  right  is  a  door  that 
leads  to  the  interior  of  the  house,  and  at  the  left  another 
that  leads  to  the  hallway  and  the  outer  door. 

The  tirne  is  five  o'clock  on  a  Friday  afternoon  in  late  summer. 
The  French  windows  are  closed,  subduing  somewhat  the 
light  in  the  room.  The  rising  curtain  reveals  WILLIAM 
PARKER,  DULCY'S  brother,  stretched  out  in  an  easy  chair, 
reading  a  magazine.  After  a  moment  HENRY,  the  but 
ler,  enters.  He  goes  up  to  the  windows,  opens  them,  and 
comes  back  to  BILL. 

HENRY.     Mr.  Smith  has  just  come  in,  sir. 

BILL  [after  a  pause,  not  looking  up  from  his  magazine}. 
Yeh? 

HENRY.    Yes,  sir. 

BILL.     My  sister  with  him? 

HENRY.  Oh,  no,  sir!  Mrs.  Smith  is  at  her  Friday  after 
noon  club,  over  at  Mrs.  Kennedy's.  [HENRY  picks  up  a 
magazine  from  the  floor  and  puts  it  on  the  table.} 

BILL  [getting  to  his  feet}.     What  time's  dinner? 

HENRY  [hesitates}.     Seven-fifty,  sir. 

BILL.     Seven-fifty?     My  God! 

HENRY.    Yes,  sir. 

BILL.     Oh — James ! 

HENRY.     Henry,  sir. 

BILL.     Henry  ? 

HENRY.    Yes,  sir. 

BILL.  Henry.  [He  pauses.}  Who  else  is  coming  to  this 
— week-end?  I  mean,  besides  Mr.  Forbes,  and — ah — his  wife 
and  daughter? 

HENRY.  I'm  not  certain,  sir.  I've  rooms  ready  for  a 
number,  sir. 

BILL.    M'm.     Well —     [Enter    GORDON    SMITH,    DUL- 


i72  DULCY 

CINEA'S  husband.     He  is  an  alert  young  business  man,  with 
worry  just  beginning  to  set  on  his  shoulders.] 

GORDON  [as  he  enters].     Good  evening,  Bill.    You're  early. 
HENRY  [turning  away  from  BILL].     Yes,  sir. 
BILL.     Hello,  Gordon.     [BILL  lights  a  cigarette.     HENRY 
goes  out;  GORDON'S  eyes  follow  him] 

GORDON  [looks  around,  yawns,  stretches].     Been  here  long? 
BILL.    Oh,  not  so  very.     It  was  sort  of  dull  in  town,  so 
I  thought  I'd  come  out  early. 

GORDON.     Of  course — glad   you  did.      [He   takes  another 
moment  to  stretch,  then  drops  onto  the  sofa]     Tired  to-night. 
BILL   [observing  a  folded  newspaper  in  GORDON'S  pocket]. 
What's  that— the  Sun? 

GORDON.  No — Post.  [He  hands  him  the  paper — BILL 
drops  into  a  chair  with  it.  There  is  a  considerable  pause  while 
BILL  reads  and  GORDON  indulges  in  another  yawn]  Dulcy 
not  home  yet,  huh? 

BILL  [reading  the  paper  at  the  same  time].     No.     She's — 
across  the  street — some  place.     Mrs.  Kennedy's,  I  think. 
GORDON.     Oh,  yes.     It's  a — Friday  afternoon  thingmajig. 
BILL  [still  with  the  paper].     M'm. 

GORDON  [another  pause;  musters  up  some  energy].  Well! 
How's  business? 

BILL  [puts  down  the  paper  and  looks  at  him].     What? 
GORDON.     I  say,  how's  business? 

BILL  [as  though  announcing  a  death].     Haven't  you  heard? 
GORDON   [a  bit  cheerily].     Oh,   I  don't  know — I  have  an 
idea  it  may  be  picking  up  presently. 

BILL  [tapping  the  newspaper].     You've  been  reading  Mr. 
Schwab.     [He  quotes]     "  Steel  Man  Sees  Era  of  Prosperity.1' 
GORDON.    Well — I  think  he's  right  at  that. 
BILL.     Yes.     [A  pause]     Rockefeller  expects  to  break  even 
this  year,  too. 

GORDON.  Just  the  same,  I  look  for  an  improvement. 
[Earnestly]  Bill,  if  it  could  just  be  arranged  that  all  the  out 
standing  accounts  could  be  absorbed  by  the  banks,  and  then 
turn  those  into  accounts  payable — 

BILL  [interrupting].  I  know.  You  mean — things  would 
be  better  if  we  weren't  all  broke. 

GORDON.  That's  one  of  the  things  that  holds  us  back — 
pessimism. 


DULCY  173 

BILL.     How's  the  artificial  jewelry  business?    If  any? 

GORDON.     Well,  it's — looking  up  a  bit. 

BILL.    Anything  new  on  Forbes'  merger? 

GORDON.  It's  coming  along.  It's  practically  settled,  I 
think,  that  I'm  to  go  in  with  him. 

BILL.  That's  great.  I  hadn't  said  anything,  but  I  rather 
felt  that  you  were  up  against  it,  when  I  saw  you  last  week. 

GORDON.    Thanks,  old  man.     I — was,  a  bit. 

BILL.     You'll  be  all  right  if  this  deal  goes  through? 

GORDON.  I  think  so.  It  will  end  this  fighting  among  us 
smaller  men. 

BILL.     How  many  of  you  are  going  into  this  pool? 

GORDON.  About  half  the  trade.  I'm  to  get  sixteen  and 
two-thirds  per  cent  of  the  stock  of  the  combine. 

BILL.     Just  for  the  factory? 

GORDON  [unwillingly].  Well,  the  plant  and  the  pearl 
formula. 

BILL.     Oh,  I  see. 

GORDON  [justifying  himself].  Of  course,  that  means  a  cash 
payment  when  the  papers  are  signed,  and  that  will  just  about 
see  me  through. 

BILL.  You  think  that's  enough — sixteen  and  two-thirds? 
Those  pearls  of  yours  are  pretty  good,  you  know,  even  if  they 
are  imitations. 

GORDON.  I  know — but  I'm  up  against  it.  I've  got  to  take 
what  he  gives  me,  or  have  that  crowd  to  fight.  Forbes  is  a 
tough  customer. 

BILL.     That's  hard  luck. 

GORDON  [doubtfully].  Of  course,  I  may  be  able  to  do 
something  with  him  over  the  week-end. 

BILL.     Huh? 

GORDON.     He's  coming  out  here,  you  know. 

BILL.     So  I  understand. 

GORDON  [looks  at  his  watch]'.  They're  driving  up  from 
town. 

BILL.  Uh-huh.  [Thoughtfully.']  Bringing  his  wife  and 
— daughter,  too,  isn't  he? 

GORDON.    Yes.    They're  going  to  stay  over  Sunday. 

BILL.     I  didn't  know  you  knew  them  that  well. 

GORDON.  Well,  I  don't — except  Forbes — in  a  business  way. 
[He  pauses]  I  wasn't  keen  for  it. 


174  DULCY 

BILL.    Well,  then— 

GORDON  [rises].  Well,  Dulcy  thought  it  would  be  nice  to 
have  them  out  here,  and — well — 

BILL  [as  GORDON  pauses].  Yes,  I  know.  [There  is  a 
pause.]  Does  he  play  Russian  bank?  [HENRY  enters  with 
the  afternoon  papers,  which  he  puts  on  the  table.  GORDON 
watches  him  narrowly,  and  believes  that  he  detects  HENRY 
looking  furtively  at  him.  HENRY  departs  again.] 

GORDON  [paying  no  attention  to  BILL'S  question].  Did 
you  notice  that? 

BILL.     What? 

GORDON.    The  way  he  looked  at  me. 

BILL  [lightly].     Henry? 

GORDON.     Didn't  Dulcy  tell  you? 

BILL.     She's  over  at  Mrs.  Kennedy's. 

GORDON.     Well — he's  an  escaped  convict! 

BILL  [with  a  start].     He's — what? 

GORDON.  No — I  don't  think  that's  just  what  I  mean.  It's 
a — suspended  sentence.  Dulcy  got  him  off  by — you  know. 
Promised  to  take  care  of  him,  and  give  him  work,  and — 

BILL.    What's  his  line? 

GORDON.     He's  a — butler. 

BILL.     I  mean,  what  was  his  line? 

GORDON.     Oh!     He — wrote  a  little  check  or  something. 

BILL.     And  the  judge  turned  him  over  to  Dulcy? 

GORDON.  After  she  made  about  twenty  trips  to  town,  and 
exhausted  the  judge,  and  used  up  a  hundred  dollars'  worth 
of  my  lawyer,  and — 

BILL.     She  does  things  right. 

GORDON.  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  it's  all  right.  After  all, 
there  was  some  doubt  about  him.  Dulcy  went  to  see  His  wife 
and  family,  and — she  felt  pretty  badly  over  it —  [Door  bell 
rings.] 

GORDON.     Here  they  are ! 

BILL.     The  Forbeses? 

GORDON.    Yes. 

BILL.  Better  send  them  over  to  Mrs.  Kennedy's,  so  that 
Dulcy  can  receive  them. 

GORDON.  Darn  it! — the  man  coming  here,  with  a  busi 
ness  deal  on.  I  don't  like  it!  [Enter  HENRY.]  It  looks 
too  much  as  if  I  were  trying  to — 


DULCY  175 

BILL.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  [HENRY  crosses  and  goes  out 
at  the  other  side.  BILL  watches  him  off.~\  Are  you  always 
sure  he's  coming  back? 

GORDON.     I  don't  like  mixing  business  with  social  affairs. 

BILL  [solemnly].     Why  don't  you  make  Dulcy  lay  off? 

GORDON.     Why  don't  I?     How  can  I? 

BILL  [after  considering  it}.  I  never  thought  of  that. 
[Enter  HENRY.] 

HENRY.  It's  a  Mr. —  [Enter  TOM  STERRETT,  a  very- 
much-alive  young  man.  He  is  the  kind  of  youth  who  pulls 
weights  in  his  bedroom  every  morning,  and  who  feels  that  a 
vigorous  good  health  is  the  first  aid  toward  business  success. 
His  business  is  advertising.  He  could  tell  you  hundreds  of 
interesting  facts  about  type  psychology,  direct  sales  drives  and 
national  conferences;  and  would,  if  you  gave  him  half  a  chance. 
He  believes  in  Presence  and  knows  he  has  it.] 

STERRETT  [brushing  past  HENRY  with  an  Open,  Sesame! 
smile].  I  beg  your  pardon!  I'm  Mr.  Sterrett! 

BILL  [first  looking  at  GORDON  to  see  if  he  knows  him;  sees 
he  does  not].  That's  fine. 

GORDON.  You're  looking  for — Smiths?  [HENRY  departs 
at  this  point] 

STERRETT.  Yes,  sir.  I'm  expected  to  meet  Mr.  Forbes 
here.  Your  man  says — 

GORDON  [#  bit  more  cordial].  Oh!  Mr  Forbes  hasn't 
arrived  yet — I'm  expecting  him  very  soon.  [Extending  his 
hand]  I  am  Mr.  Smith. 

STERRETT  [inflicting  a  brisk  hand-shake].     Smith  Pearls? 

GORDON.    Ah — yes. 

STERRETT.     I  follow  your  campaigns.     Your  advertising. 

GORDON.     This  is  Mr.  Parker,  my  brother-in-law. 

STERRETT.  How  are  you,  sir!  {^Shaking  his  hand  vigor* 
ously]  Didn't  I  meet  you  at  the  A.  C.  A.  Convention? — in 
Detroit  last  summer?  [Renewing  the  hand-shake  with  the 
explanation]  Advertising  Oubs  of  America? 

BILL  [returning  the  shake  with  interest].     I'm  afraid  not. 

STERRETT  [very  quickly].     Sorry,  my  mistake. 

BILL  [adopting  STERRETT'S  snappy  style].  It's  all  right! 
Have  a  cigarette!  [He  whips  out  his  case;  clicks  his  heels 
with  military  precision] 

STERRETT  [accepting  one  and  glancing  at  it].     Ah!     C  & 


i76  DULCY 

G!     Thanks!     [Pulls  forward  a  chair,   sits,   and  lights   hif 
cigarette.] 

GORDON  [knowingly  saying  the  unnecessary].  Won't  you 
— wait  ? 

STERRETT.  Surely!  Mr.  Forbes  left  word  at  his  office  for 
me  to  meet  him  here.  It's  about  some  contracts  that  have  to 
be— 

GORDON  [somewhat  more  cordially].  Oh,  I  see.  You're 
in  the  Forbes  organization? 

STERRETT  [with  a  trace  of  reproof].  Oh,  no!  I  handle 
Mr.  Forbes'  advertising.  S.  S.  Q.  &  L.  Agency. 

BILL  [airily].     Oh,  the  S.  S.  U.  &  L.! 

STERRETT  [correcting  him].  S.  S.  Q.  &  L.  Simpson, 
Simpson,  Querrida  and  Lawford. 

BILL  [taking  a  moment  to  digest  it].     That's  fine. 

STERRETT  [hitching  his  chair  towards  SMITH].  Have  you 
followed  our  Forbes  copy,  Mr.  Smith? 

GORDON.     Well — to  a  degree — yes. 

STERRETT  [a  bit  disappointed  in  GORDON;  turns  to  BILL], 
You're  interested  in  advertising,  Mr.  Parker? 

BILL.     I  buy  the  Saturday  Evening  Post. 

STERRETT  [missing  it  by  sixty  feet].  But  speaking  generally 
of  the  other  media — 

BILL.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  much  about  advertising.  In 
fact,  I've  never  been  in  Detroit. 

STERRETT  [answering  without  thinking].  Well,  that's  too 
bad.  [Realizing  he  hasnt  understood]  Huh?  [Thinking 
he  understands]  Oh,  yes — great  town!  Town  that's  made 
itself  through  advertising!  [He  consults  watch]  What 
time  do  you  expect — ah — Mr. — 

GORDON.     Mr.  Forbes  and  his  family  will  be  here  presently. 

STERRETT.     Oh,  is  Mr.  Forbes'  family  coming? 

GORDON.     Yes,  they're  going  to  spend  the  week-end. 

STERRETT.     Mr.  and  Mrs.  Forbes? 

GORDON.    Yes. 

STERRETT.    And  Miss  Forbes? 

GORDON.     Yes. 

BILL.     Are  you  a  friend  of  the — family's? 

STERRETT.    Oh,  yes!     [A  pause]     Yes,  indeed! 

BILL  [giving  GORDON  a  significant  look].     H'm. 
STERRETT.    What  was  that? 


DULCY  177 

BILL.     I  didn't  say  anything. 

STERRETT.     Oh,  beg  pardon,  I'm  sure. 

GORDON.  Well — ah —  [He  is  saying  what  seems  to  be 
expected  of  him.]  You  must  stay  for  dinner,  Mr.  Sterrett. 

STERRETT.     Many  thanks.     If  I  won't  be — 

GORDON   [a  bit  curtly].     That's  splendid. 

BILL.  Yes — that's  fine.  We  generally  need  one  more  for 
Dulcy's  parlor  games,  don't  we? 

STERRETT.     Now,  I  want  to  be  sure  I'm  not  intruding. 

GORDON.  Not  at  all.  We're  only  too  glad  to  have  you. 
[DuLCiNEA  enters  through  the  French  window.  She  is 
dressed  in  a  gown  that  is  just  a  bit  too  much  for  an  afternoon 
gathering;  she  carries  an  armful  of  flowers,  and  she  is  in  her 
customary  bubbling  good  humor.] 

DULCY.     Hello,  everybody! 

BILL.     Hello,  Dulcy. 

DULCY.  M'm!  It's  nice  and  cool  in  here,  isn't  it?  You 
know,  if  there  is  any  breeze  going  at  all,  we  get  it  in  this 
room.  [She  has  a  way  of  speaking  an  age-old  platitude  as 
though  it  were  a  wise  and  original  thought — a  little  thing 
casually  tossed  off  in  the  course  of  conversation.]  Don't  we, 
Gordon,  darling?  [She  kisses  him.]  Did  you  have  a  good 
day  at  the  office?  Send  for  Henry  to  fix  these,  will  you? 
[She  indicates  the  flowers.]  Aren't  they  pretty? — right  out 
of  my  own  garden.  [BiLL  comes  down  to  her.]  Hello,  Wil 
lie.  [Kisses  him.]  Whom  have  you  been  doing?  Eh? 
[She  laughs  loudly  at  her  own  joke.] 

GORDON.     Dulcy,  this  is  Mr.  Sterrett.     My  wife. 

DULCY.  Oh,  how  do  you  do?  [Shaking  hands  somewhat 
appraisingly.] 

STERRETT  [with  great  assurance].     How  do  you  do! 

DULCY  [trying  to  estimate  STERRETT'S  position  in  the  scheme 
of  things].  Have  you  been  over  the  grounds?  Gordon,  you 
must  show  Mr.  Sterrett  over  the  grounds. 

GORDON.     Mr.  Sterrett  is  a  friend  of  the  Forbeses. 

DULCY  [as  this  explains  STERRETT  to  her].  Oh,  the 
Forbeses — really!  Oh,  that  is  nice!  [Then  with  a  bit  of 
panic.]  Have  they  come?  Where  are  they ?  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me!  [She  rushes  up  toward  the  staircase,  then  toward 
the  windows.]  Upstairs  or  in  the  garden  or  where — 

BILL  [holding  up  his  hand].     Now — wait. 


i78  DULCY 

DULCY  [coming  to  BILL].  But  what  are  they  going  to 
think?  My  not  being  here — how  rude — why,  if  they — 

BILL.  Now,  wait— wait!  [She  finally  pauses.}  The 
Forbeses  are  not  here. 

DULCY.  Well,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  so  in  the  first  place? 
After  all,  Willie,  I'm  not  a  mind  reader. 

GORDON.  Mr.  Sterrett  has  come  to  see  Mr.  Forbes  on  a 
matter  of  business. 

BILL.     And  since  he  is  also  a  friend  of  Miss  Forbes — 

GORDON.     I've  invited  him  to  stay  for  dinner. 

DULCY  [none  too  pleased,  particularly  about  STERRETT'S  be 
ing  a  friend  of  ANGELA'S].  Oh!  So,  you're  a  friend  of  An 
gela's — that's  lovely!  Yes,  you  must  stay!  [HENRY  enters 
and  stands  awaiting  instructions.'}  Just  take  pot  luck  with 
us,  Mr.  Sterrett.  I  always  say  that  anyone  can  drop  in — 
I  think  that's  the  nicest  kind  of  a  household,  don't  you?  •  [This 
one  is  No.  213,  Series  L,  but  DULCY  utters  it  as  though  no 
one  had  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing  before.] 
^£TERRETT.  Why,  yes.  You  know,  I  have  a  dear  old  aunt — 

DULCY  [not  waiting  to  hear].  Oh,  Henry,  get  some  vases 
for  these  flowers — then  I'll  arrange  them.  I  think  arranging 
flowers  is  quite  a  knack,  don't  you,  Mr.  Sterrett?  Some  peo 
ple  can  do  it,  and  others  can't,  you  know  .  .  .  it's  just  like 
an  ear  for  music.  Either  you  have  it,  or  you  haven't  it,  and 
there  you  are ! 

BILL.  Mr.  Sterrett  is  in  the  advertising  business — not  the 
music  business. 

STERRETT.  Oh,  but  what  she  says  is  very  true — very  true, 
indeed.  But  as  I  was  saying — this  dear  old  aunt  of  mine — 
I — ah — she —  [DuLCY  is  giving  the  flowers  to  HENRY  and 
pays  no  attention.  STERRETT  fails  to  make  an  audience  either 
of  SMITH  or  BILL.]  I — ah — suppose  I  wait  in  the  next  room 
for  Mr.  Forbes? 

DULCY.  Of  course.  Henry,  show  Mr.  Sterrett  into  the 
library.  There  are  some  lovely  books  there.  My  books  are 
my  best  friends,  Mr.  Sterrett. 

STERRETT.  Thank  you.  [He  departs — and  glad  of  the 
opportunity.] 

DULCY.  Henry,  fix  up  the  little  green  room  for  to-night. 
Fix  it  nicely. 

Yes,  ma'am.     [He  follows  STERRETT  off.] 


DULCY  179 

GORDON.     He's  not  going  to  stay  to-night! 

DULCY  [has  picked  up  an  evening  paper,  and  is  already  ab 
sorbed  in  it].  No,  darling,  but  someone  else  is. 

BILL.     Still  another? 

DULCY  [with  the  paper].  Oh,  what  do  you  think?  Mrs. 
Harper  was  acquitted!  I  always  say,  if  a  woman  is  good 
looking,  no  jury  on  earth  will  convict  her. 

GORDON.     Dulcy,  never  mind  that.     Who  else  is  coming? 

DULCY  {immersed  in  paper].  "  A  demonstration  that  lasted 
fifteen  minutes  greeted  the  acquittal  of  Mrs. — " 

GORDON.     Dulcy! 

DULCY  [slowly,  as  she  scans  the  article'].  I  just  want  to 
see  what  she  wore. 

GORDON.     Dulcy,  listen  to  me! 

DULCY.     Well,  dear? 

GORDON.    Who  else  is  coming? 

DULCY  [putting  paper  down].     You'll  never  guess. 

GORDON  [tiredly].     I'm  sure  I've  no  idea,  Dulcy. 

DULCY  [going  to  him].     Schuyler  Van  Dyck! 

BILL.     Schuyler  Van  Dyck! 

DULCY.     One  of  the  Van  Dycks,  and  he's  worth  millions! 

GORDON.     Schuyler  Van  Dyck's  coming  here! 

DULCY.  Yes — isn't  it  wonderful!  He's  a  marvelous  man, 
and  you  ought  to  hear  him  play  the  piano.  You'd  never  think 
he  was  a  Van  Dyck — he's  so  democratic. 

BILL.     Where  the  devil  did  you  meet  him? 

DULCY.  Oh,  several  places,  and  this  afternoon  he  was 
at  Mrs.  Kennedy's  and  played  for  us.  He  had  a  lot  of  invi 
tations,  and  he  accepted  mine.  [DuLCY  returns  to  the  table 
and  replaces  the  newspaper  neatly,  then  gives  the  sofa  cushions 
a  touch.  GORDON  follows  her,  speaking  as  he  goes.] 

GORDON.  But,  my  dear,  having  this  man  here  with  Forbes 
— how  do  we  know  it's  going  to — 

DULCY.  Oh,  but  it  will — Mr.  Van  Dyck's  a  business  man 
too,  darling.  He  owns  all  kinds  of  things — railroads — rail 
roads — I  think — some  of  them  are.  He'll  help  entertain  Mr. 
Forbes  with  them. 

GORDON.  But  Forbes  isn't  the  kind  of  man  that  wants 
to  be  entertained.  That's  just  it! 

DULCY.  Darling,  leave  Mr.  Forbes  to  me.  [Puts  arm 
around  him.]  I've  got  a  real  surprise  for  you! 


i8o  DULCY 

GORDON.     Another  one? 

DULCY.     A  wonderful  one!     Just  for  you! 

BILL.  One  thing  that  Dulcy  never  learned  is  the  differ 
ence  between  a  surprise  and  a  shock.  [HENRY  returns  with 
a  bowl  and  a  vase  of  flowers.'] 

DULCY.     You  shut  up,  Willie. 

GORDON.     But  what  is  it?     Has  it  got  to  do  with  Forbes? 

DULCY.  Yes,  darling,  and  it's  something  that's  going  to 
help  you  a  great  deal  with  Mr.  Forbes.  [BiLL  goes  solemnly 
to  GORDON  and  shakes  his  hand.] 

BILL.  Sometimes  I  think  our  family  must  have  adopted 
Dulcy.  [He  makes  a  melancholy  exit.] 

DULCY.     Oh,   Henry!     There'll  be  two  more  for  dinner. 

HENRY.     Yes,  ma'am. 

DULCY.     That  makes — nine,  doesn't  it? 

HENRY.     Yes,  ma'am.     [HENRY  goes  upstairs.] 

DULCY.  I  love  a  big  table,  don't  you,  Gordon?  There's 
something  so  hospitable  about  it.  [She  is  looking  around  for 
the  spots  at  which  to  place  the  flowers.] 

GORDON.  Nine?  Then  there's  still  another  coming — be 
sides  Van  Dyck? 

DULCY  [with  the  air  of  someone  revealing  a  great  secret]. 
Yes! 

GORDON.  What  are  you  trying  to  do — solve  the  housing 
problem  ? 

DULCY  [picking  up  vase  of  flowers].  Just  wait,  darling! 
You'll  be  so  excited!  [Breaking  the  big  news  over  SMITH'S 
shoulder.]  Vincent — is  coming! 

GORDON  [at  sea].     Vincent? 

DULCY.  Yes.  Isn't  it  wonderful?  [Puts  the  vase  on  the 
piano]  That  looks  pretty,  doesn't  it? 

GORDON  [trying  to  recall].  Vincent — Vincent — who  the 
devil  is  Vincent? 

DULCY  [indicating  the  bowl].  Or  do  you  think  this  one 
ought  to  go  over  there  and  that  one  here? 

GORDON  [annoyed],     I  don't  know.     Who  is  this  man? 

DULCY.  Well,  you  don't  need  to  get  angry  at  me> 
darling,  just  because  I  want  to  make  the  place  look  nice. 

GORDON.     I'm  not  angry — but — 

DULCY.  I'm  doing  it  for  you,  darling.  You  know,  with 
Mr.  Forbes  coming — 


DULCY  181 

GORDON.     I  know,  but — tell  me  about  this  man — 

DULCY.  Vincent  Leach?  Don't  you  remember  ?  You  and 
I  met  him  at  Mrs.  Peabody's  last  week — you  know,  the  big 
scenario  writer. 

GORDON  [faintly  recalling}.     Oh,  yes.     Is  he  coming  here? 

DULCY.  Yes!  Isn't  it  wonderful?  [Picks  up  the  bowl 
from  the  table  and  starts  toward  piano  with  itJ] 

GORDON.  But  look  here  now — Dulcy,  will  you  leave  those 
flowers  alone,  and  come  here  and  talk  to  me? 

DULCY.  Just  a  minute,  darling.  [She  replaces  the  vase 
on  the  piano  with  the  bowl,  then  takes  the  vase  back  and  puts 
it  on  the  table.]  A  time  and  a  place  for  everything.  There! 
[She  seats  herself  on  his  lap.} 

GORDON.  But,  dear,  why  do  you  want  to  mix  this  man 
Leach  up  with  Forbes?  Van  Dyck  may  be  all  right,  but — 

DULCY.    Ah !     That's  the  secret ! 

GORDON.     But  I  don't  like — secrets.     This  isn't  a — game. 

DULCY.     Promise  you  won't  tell!     Cross  your  heart! 

GORDON.     Yes,  yes. 

DULCY.  Well,  then — Vincent  and  Angela —  [she  kisses 
him}  — like  each  other. 

GORDON.     You  mean — Forbes'  daughter? 

DULCY  [nodding].  Isn't  it  wonderful?  So  I  invited  them 
both  here  so  they'll  have  the  whole  week-end  together.  And 
at  the  same  time  he  can  meet  her  parents.  You  never  can  tell 
what  will  happen. 

GORDON.  But,  Dulcy,  dear,  you  don't  know  Angela  so 
well,  and — this  man  Leach — what  do  you  know  about  him? 

DULCY.  I  know  all  about  him.  He's  a  big  scenario  writer, 
and  just  the  man  for  Angie.  He's — he's  so  practical,  and 
she's  a  dreamer.  Opposites  should  marry — you  know  that, 
darling. 

GORDON.     But,  Dulcy,  now — 

DULCY.  And  what  else  do  you  think?  I'm  going  to  get 
him  to  help  me  with  some  of  ray  scenarios  while  he's  here. 

GORDON.     But  why,  dear — ? 

DULCY.     To  make  them  better. 

GORDON.  No,  no — I  mean — why  are  you  trying  to  match 
this  fellow  Leach  with  Angela?  What  do  you  care  about 
it? 

DULCY.     Don't  you  see? 


1 82  DULCY 

GORDON.    No. 

DULCY.     Can't  you  guess? 

GORDON.     No. 

DULCY.  Well,  if  Angie  likes  Mr.  Leach,  and  marries 
him — 

GORDON.    Yes? 

DULCY.    And  /  fix  it — 

GORDON.     Well  ? 

DULCY.  Well — I'm  your  wife —  [GORDON  springs  up  in 
alarm,  dropping  DULCY  off  his  lap.] 

GORDON.     Now,  Dulcy  dear — 

DULCY.  That  will  make  Mr.  Forbes  so  grateful  i:hat  he'll 
have  to  give  you  more  than  sixteen  and  two-thirds  of  the  per 
centage. 

GORDON.     Good  heavens,  Dulcy!     Now — 

DULCY  [ecstatically].     I  figured  it  all  out  myself! 

GORDON.     But,  now  wait!     [He  paces  the  floor]. 

DULCY.  Gordon,  darling — don't  be  upset  about  it.  I  know 
they  ought  to  marry — I  just  know  it.  It's  a  woman's  intui 
tion.  [A  pause.]  Just  as  I  knew  I  ought  to  marry  you, 
dear.  [GORDON  stops.]  It  was  because  I  loved  you,  darling, 
and  wanted  to  help  you,  and — and — 

GORDON  [going  to  her  and  embracing  her].  Yes,  and  you 
do  help  me. 

DULCY.    Well,  then — 

GORDON  [tenderly].  And  you're  not  sorry  that  you  mar 
ried  me,  instead  of  Arthur,  with  all  those  millions? 

DULCY.  You're  going  to  have  millions,  too,  dear — at  least 
thousands.  And  I  loved  you — not  Arthur.  [She  buries  her 
head  on  his  shoulder.] 

GORDON.     Dulcy,  dear.     [He  kisses  her  neck.] 

DULCY.  And  I'd  love  you  if  you  didn't  have  a  cent,  and — 
and  stand  by  you,  and  help  you.  You  do  want  me  to  help  you, 
don't  you? 

GORDON   [reluctantly].     Why — I — ah — yes — ah — 

DULCY.     Well,  then,  let  me! 

GORDON.  But  you  don't  understand,  dear.  Try  to  see 
my  position. 

DULCY.  But  I  do  see  it.  You  need  Mr.  Forbes'  help  and 
I'm  going  to  get  it  for  you. 

GORDON.     I  need  it  in  a  business  way.     And  as  it's  only  in 


DULCY  183 

a  business  way,  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  handle  ft  alone — in 
office  hours.  Don't  you  see? 

DULCY  [turning  away  on  the  verge  of  tears],  I  feel  almost 
as  if  I  were  being — exiled. 

GORDON  [embracing  her].  Well,  you  mustn't — you  aren't 
being  exiled.  Just  realize  that  in  this  particular  affair  you're 
my  silent  partner,  and  a  very  important  one,  too.  Don't  you 
know,  dear,  if  it  weren't  for  you  I  couldn't  go  to  town  day 
after  day  and  fight!  There! — you're  really  helping  me  all 
the  time,  by  just  being  you.  [He  steps  back  from  her.~] 
Furthermore,  don't  you  remember  that  you  promised  me  that 
you'd  let  me  manage  my  own  business  matters? 

DULCY.     When? 

GORDON.  Three  months  ago?  When  we  came  back  from 
our  honeymoon? 

DULCY.     Why,  I  never  did. 

GORDON.  The  time  that  you  practically  discharged  my 
secretary  ? 

DULCY  [remembering'].     Oh! 

GORDON.  You  thought  Shepherd  was  dishonest  simply  be 
cause  he  wore  a  heavy  black  moustache. 

DULCY.  Oh,  Gordon,  darling,  I  know  I've  done  some  silly 
things,  but  when  I  married  you,  dearest,  I  did  promise  to 
stand  beside  you  all  my  life  and  love  you  and  help  you,  and 
that's  what  I  think  I  ought  to  do  now.  That's  why  I'm  doing 
it. 

GORDON.    But,  Dulcy — 

DULCY.  Well,  Mr.  Forbes  is  taking  advantage  of  you  and 
I'm  not  going  to  let  him — that's  all ! 

GORDON  [desperately].  But  that  isn't  the  point!  In  the 
position  that  I  am  I  have  to  go  ahead  with  it.  I  wouldn't 
want  anything  to  happen.  [Pleading  affectionately.]  Don't 
you  see,  dear,  if  I'm  not  in  that  merger,  I'll  lose — everything! 

DULCY.  But  only  sixteen  and  two-thirds  per  cent — it's 
such  a  funny  number,  too.  I  don't  see  why  you  couldn't  get 
a  nice  even  number — like  twenty-five.  [She  pauses.]  Or 
fifty!  But  sixteen  and  two-thirds — they  could  never  divide  it. 
[BlLL  returns.] 

BILL.     Well,  has  she  fixed  it? 

DULCY.  We've  been  all  through  it  quietly,  Willie,  and 
it's  settled. 


1 84  DULCY 

GORDON.     Now,  Dulcy,  you  must  listen — 

DULCY.  Now — now — not  another  word.  Just  let — let — 
sleeping  dogs  lie  and  everything  is  bound  to  come  out  all  right. 
It  always  does.  [She  looks  toward  the  window.]  Oh,  here's 
Mr.  Van  Dyck!  [Rushing  to  the  window.']  Come  right  in 
this  way,  Mr.  Van  Dyck!  That's  right — here  you  are! 
[ScHUYLER  VAN  DYCK  enters  through  the  French  window. 
He  is  aristocratic  in  bearing  and  well  dressed.  He  has  a  bag  of 
golf-clubs  over  his  shoulder  and  is  carrying  a  suitcase .]  Well, 
you  found  the  way,  didn't  you — you're  like  me — you've  got  a 
bump  of  location!  Henry  will  take  your  things — where's 
Henry? — Willie,  send  for  Henry!  My,  this  is  lovely!  [BiLL 
pulls  the  bell  cord.]  So  glad  to  see  you  in  our  own  little  nest, 
Mr.  Van  Dyck.  [VAN  DYCK  has  put  his  suitcase  and  golf- 
bag  down.  DULCINEA  leads  him  down  to  GORDON.]  This 
is  my  husband,  Mr.  Van  Dyck.  Mr.  Van  Dyck,  Gordon, 
that  I've  been  telling  you  so  much  about.  [As  an  after 
thought.']  And  my  brother,  Willie.  [HENRY  comes  down 
stairs.] 

VAN  DYCK  [as  he  shakes  SMITH'S  hand].  Mr.  Smith,  how 
do  you  do,  sir? 

GORDON.     I'm  very  pleased  to  know  you,  Mr.  Van  Dyck. 

DULCY.  Henry,  take  Mr.  Van  Dyck's  things.  So  glad 
you  brought  your  golf  clubs.  We'll  see  that  you  use  them. 
[BiLL  has  circled  down  to  VAN  DYCK  and  offers  his  hand.] 

BILL  [quietly].     My  name  is  Parker. 

VAN  DYCK.  I'm  delighted,  Mr.  Parker.  [BiLL  retires 
again.]  I'm  very  much  afraid  that  I'm  intruding. 

GORDON.    Why,  not  at  all! 

DULCY.  Intruding!  I  should  say  not!  [HENRY  has 
picked  up  the  bags  and  is  awaiting  VAN  DYCK  on  the  stairs.] 

VAN  DYCK.  Mrs.  Smith  was  so — so  very  gracious  as  to 
ask  me  to  be  your  guest.  May  I — accept  with  a  proviso? 

GORDON.     Why,  certainly. 

VAN  DYCK.  It  is  barely  possible  that  some  business  mat 
ters  will  call  me  back  to  town.  In  that  event —  [He  smiles 
his  rare  smile.]  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me. 

DULCY.  Of  course!  We  all  understand  business  here — 
don't  we,  Gordon,  darling?  Business  before  pleasure! 

VAN  DYCK.     You're  very  good. 

DULCY.     Henry,  show  Mr.  Van  Dyck  to  his  room.     Henry 


DULCY  185 

will  show  you,  Mr.  Van  Dyck.  [It  is  not  in  her  nature  to 
say  a  thing  ONCE.] 

VAN  DYCK.  Thank  you — if  I  may.  I  shall  rejoin  you 
presently. 

DULCY  [calling  to  him  as  he  goes  upstairs'].  Dinner  at 
eight-twenty ! 

BILL.  E ight- twenty  ?  Have  you  been  reading  Vanity  Fair 
again  ? 

DULCY.  Everybody  dines  at  eight-twenty,  Willie.  It's  con 
tinental.  [DuLCY  turns  to  her  husband.}  Well,  how  do  you 
like  Mr.  Van  Dyck?  Nice,  isn't  he? 

GORDON.     He's  all  right,  I  guess. 

DULCY.  Wait  till  you  hear  him  play  the  piano.  A  lovely 
touch,  and  so  soulful. 

BILL.  Don't  forget  to  ask  him  to  play.  [HENRY  comes 
down  the  steps.} 

DULCY  [going  to  BILL  and  sitting  beside  him}.  Dear,  no — 
right  after  dinner.  We're  going  to  have  a  nice  musical  eve 
ning.  Music  after  eating  helps  digestion.  All  the  new  doc 
tors  say  so.  [HENRY  departs  again.  BILL  looks  after  him 
uncomfortably.} 

BILL.     Dulcy ! 

DULCY.    Well,  Willie? 

BILL.     When  you  took  this  butler  out  of  Sing  Sing— 

DULCY  [rising}.     Sing  Sing?     He  wasn't  in  Sing  Sing! 

BILL.     You  didn't  go  way  out  to  Leavenworth,  did  you? 

DULCY.  Now,  I  know  just  what  you're  going  to  say,  but 
it  isn't  true.  Just  because  Henry  made  one  false  step  doesn't 
mean  he's  going  to  make  another.  If  you  ask  me,  I  think 
there's  enough  sorrow  in  the  world  without  trying  to  make 
things  worse.  Every  cloud  has  a  silver  lining,  and — so  has 
Henry. 

BILL.     Yes.     The  question  is,  how  did  he  get  it? 

DULCY.  It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least — he's  all  right  now. 
He  promised  me.  Besides,  he  has  to  report  to  the  probation 
officer  every  week,  and  tell  him  everything  he  does. 

BILL.     Oh,  he  has  to  tell  him  everything? 

DULCY.     Every  week. 

BILL.     You  don't  think  he  has  any — secrets? 

DULCY.  You  must  be  more  tolerant,  Willie.  You  know, 
there's  so  much  good  in  the  best  of  us — and  so  much  bad  in 


186  DULCY 

the  worst  of  us — well,  it  ill  behooves  the  best  of  us —  [She 
flounders,  but  is  saved  by  the  door  bell.] 

GORDON.     Here  are  the  Forbeses! 

DULCY.  Wait,  Gordon — let  that  poor  Henry  answer! 
The  trouble  with  the  world,  Willie,  is  that  it  doesn't  give 
the  under-dog  a  chance!  Live  and  let  live — is  my  motto. 
[HENRY  returns  to  answer  the  bell.] 

BILL.  I  surrender.  [A  pause.]  Oh,  Dulcy!  [HENRY 
goes  out  at  the  other  side.]  Why  don't  you  raise  his  salary? 

DULCY.     I  have! 

GORDON.  Now  remember,  Dulcy,  just  leave  Forbes  to  me 
— and — don't  forget  this  is  a  very  important  business  matter — 

DULCY.  Now,  don't  worry,  darling.  Worrying  is  the  very 
worst  thing  you  can  do — everybody  says  so.  I  was  reading 
where  Dr.  Crane  said  it  in  the  Globe  the  other  day — by  wor 
rying  you  can  catch  things.  [HENRY  opens  the  door.  The 
voices  of  the  FORBESES  are  heard;  they  enter.  First,  MR. 
FORBES — then  MRS.  FORBES — then  ANGELA.  The  greetings 
are  ad  lib.  DULCY  shakes  hands  with  each,  passing  them  to 
GORDON,  who  does  likewise.] 

DULCY.  Well,  here  is  Mr.  Forbes  now,  and  Mrs.  Forbes! 
How  charming  you  look!  Green's  your  color!  [She  turns 
to  GORDON  to  tell  him  about  it.]  Green's  her  color,  darling! 
And  Angela ! !  You've  come  to  see  me  at  last !  My,  such  red 
cheeks!  Just  like  two  ripe  apples!  [FORBES  is  already  deep 
in  business  talk  with  SMITH,  but  DULCY  turns  to  him  blithely.] 
Mr.  Forbes —  [FORBES  turns  to  her.]  Did  you  have  a 
nice  ride  out  from  the  city?  Awfully  pretty,  isn't  it — West- 
chester?  [FORBES  agrees  with  a  nod — is  about  to  turn  back 
to  SMITH.]  Did  you  come  out  the  short  way  or  the  long  way? 

FORBES  [it  is  already  evident  that  DULCY  is  going  to  be 
just  the  person  for  him]  Ah — what  was  that? 

DULCY.     Did  you  come  out  the  short  way  or  the  long  way? 

FORBES.  Ah — let  me  see.  [A  pause.]  Do  you  know, 
Eleanor  ? 

MRS.  FORBES  [his  second  wife;  a  very  feminine  person  of 
about  thirty-five;  good  looking  and  a  bit  flighty].  What,  dear? 

FORBES.     Mrs.  Smith  was  just  asking  if — 

DULCY.     Did  you  come  out  the  short  way  or  the  long  way? 

MRS.  FORBES.     Which  is  the  way  through  Hartsdale? 

DULCY.     Oh,  that's  the  short  way — you  should  have  come 


DULCY  187 

the  long  way.  No,  I  think  that  is  the  long  way,  isn't  it? 
Hartsdale  ?— Yes.  No— 

GORDON  [diplomatically'].     Well,  it  doesn't  really  matter. 

DULCY.  No,  no — both  ways  are  awfully  pretty.  [She  has 
said  this  to  MRS.  FORBES,  and  FORBES  and  SMITH  have  turned 
immediately  to  each  other  to  renew  their  conversation.  They 
haven  t  a  chance.]  Though  I  don't  suppose  you  got  much 
chance  to  look  at  the  scenery,  did  you,  Mr.  Forbes — driving 
the  car?  Don't  you  think  driving  is  awfully  hard  work,  Mr. 
Forbes? 

FORBES.     Why,  no,  I  rather  like  it. 

DULCY.  Like  it?  Really!  Oh!  Well,  it  wouldn't  do  if 
all  our  tastes  were  alike,  would  it?  [Turns  away  just  as 
HENRY  enters.]  Henry,  take  the  things  right  up — you  know 
the  rooms.  [DULCY  turns  to  MRS.  FORBES.]  Mrs.  Forbes, 
you  and  your  husband  are  to  have  the  shell-pink  suite.  It 
looks  just  like  a  bridal  suite.  [MRS.  FORBES  giggles  and 
DULCY  lauglis  with  her.]  The  bridal  suite!  Oh,  Mr. 
Forbes —  [She  goes  to  him.]  Mr.  Forbes — you  and  your 
wife  are  going  to  have  the  bridal  suite!  [FORBES  tries  to 
understand  the  joke,  but  without  success]  And,  Angie — Oh, 
there  you  are!  I  forgot  you  and  Willie  were  old  friends. 
Naughty,  naughty!  [HENRY  is  on  the  stairs  with  the  bags] 
Well,  how  is  little  Angie!  My,  what  a  pretty  necklace!  It's 
new,  isn't  it?  Pearls,  too!  [This  registers  with  HENRY.] 

ANGELA.     Father  gave  it  to  me  for  my  birthday. 

DULCY.  Your  father.  Really — wasn't  that  sweet  of  him? 
[To  FORBES.]  Your  own  manufacture? 

FORBES.     Oh,  no! 

DULCY.  Real  pearls!  Angela,  fancy  your  having  a  string 
of  real  pearls!  Isn't  that  wonderful!  [Remembers  HENRY'S 
presence]  Take  the  bags  right  up,  Henry. 

BILL.     Yes,  Henry.     [HENRY  goes] 

DULCY.  Angie  is  going  to  have  the  cutest  little  room  of  all ! 
Just  wait  till  you  see  it! 

ANGELA.     Oh,  thank  you.     [VAN  DYCK  comes  downstairs] 

DULCY  [turning  ANGELA  away  as  if  for  a  confidence].  And 
wait  till  you  see  what  else  I've  got  for  you!  You  II  be  sur 
prised,  and — oh,  here's  Mr.  Van  Dyck!  [In  her  element] 
Mrs.  Forbes,  Mr.  Van  Dyck! 

MRS.  FORBES.     How  do  you  do? 


188  DULCY 

DULCY.     And  Miss  Forbes — 

VAN  DYCK  [bowing].     Miss  Forbes!     [ANGELA  bows.] 

DULCY.  And  Mr.  Forbes — Mr.  Schuyler  Van  Dyck  of 
New  York. 

VAN  DYCK.     C.  Roger  Forbes? 

FORBES.  I'm  certainly  glad  to  know  you,  Mr.  Van  Dyck. 
I  believe  I  know  something  of  your  interests.  In  fact,  I  just 
missed  meeting  you  at  the  International  Metals  conference  last 
week. 

VAN  DYCK.  Yes?  Well,  I  hope  we  can  have  a  little 
chance  to  talk  down  here.  I'm  very  much  interested  in  jew 
elry. 

DULCY  [with  a  triumphant  look  at  her  husband].  You 
see,  Gordon? 

FORBES  [aware  that  something  is  going  on].     What's  that? 

GORDON.  Oh,  it  was  just — ah — that  is,  Mrs.  Smith 
thought —  [HENRY  comes  downstairs.] 

DULCY.  Oh,  we're  all  forgetting  Mr. — What's-his-name — 
in  the  library — a  gentleman  to  see  you,  Mr.  Forbes,  on  busi 
ness.  Henry,  tell  the  gentleman  in  the  library  to  come  in. 
[HENRY  departs  again.] 

GORDON.     It's  your  advertising  man. 

FORBES.  Oh,  yes — Sterrett.  [ANGELA  turns  sharply  at  the 
mention  of  the  name.]  I  took  the  liberty  of  leaving  word  for 
him  to  come  here — I  had  to  get  away  early. 

GORDON.     Why,  certainly. 

DULCY.  And  so  that  you'll  have  lots  of  time  to  talk  busi 
ness,  I've  invited  him  to  stay  for  dinner.  [She  looks  proudly 
toward  her  husband  as  though  asking  approbation  for  this 
remark.  GORDON  is  pleased  with  her  for  the  first  time.] 

ANGELA.     Oh!     Mr.  Sterrett  is  going  to  stay  for  dinner? 

DULCY.  Yes — because  he's  a  friend  of  yours,  Angie,  dear. 
[Quickly.]  And  because  of  the  business,  of  course.  Well, 
what  do  you  girls  say?  Shall  we  leave  the  men  to  talk  busi 
ness?  Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  your  rooms?  You  haven't 
been  over  the  house  at  all,  you  know. 

MRS.  FORBES.     Why,  we'd  love  to. 

DULCY.  Gordon,  darling,  you  must  show  Mr.  Forbes  and 
the  others  over  the  grounds.  [She  is  shepherding  MRS.  F.  and 
ANGELA  toward  the  stairs.]  You  get  a  beautiful  view  from 
the  lawn,  Mr.  Forbes.  And  don't  forget  to  show  him  the 


DULCY  189 

garden,  darling — all  our  vegetables  are  out  of  our  own  gar 
den,  Mr.  Forbes.  Then  later  you  must  see  the  garden,  Mrs. 
Forbes — and  Angie.  You  know,  there's  nothing  like  country 
life,  is  there?  Out  next  to  Nature,  you  know.  We're  just 
gypsies — regular  gypsies.  New  York  is  a  wonderful  place  to 
visit,  but  I  wouldn't  like  to  live  there.  [They  go  up  the 
stairs.] 

BILL  [breaking  the  spell}.  All  in  favor  of  the  garden,  say 
"  Aye." 

GORDON.     Smoke? 

FORBES.     Thanks.     [He  selects  a  cigar.] 

VAN  DYCK.  Thank  you.  [Takes  a  cigarette.  FORBES, 
after  a  glance  around  the  room,  heads  for  a  stiff  chair.] 

GORDON  [indicating  an  easy  chair].  Oh,  sit  here,  Mr. 
Forbes! 

FORBES.  Thanks — I  prefer  a  stiff  chair — my  back,  you 
know.  [STERRETT  returns] 

STERRETT.     Ah!     Good  afternoon,  Chief! 

FORBES.  Hello,  Sterrett.  Too  bad  to  make  you  come 
way  out  here,  but — 

STERRETT.  Not  at  all — not  at  all!  Particularly,  as  Mr. 
Smith  has  insisted  on  my  staying  to  dinner.  Has  Angela 
come? 

FORBES  [patting  him  on  back].  Oh,  yes,  she's  come. 
You've  met  Mr.  Parker? 

STERRETT.     Oh,  yes. 

FORBES.     And  Mr.  Schuyler  Van  Dyck? 

STERRETT.     Mr.  Schuyler  Van  Dyck? 

VAN  DYCK  [shaking  his  hand].     Mr.  Sterrett. 

STERRETT.     I've  heard  of  you,  Mr.  Van  Dyck. 

VAN  DYCK.    Yes? 

STERRETT  [crisply].  Yes,  sir.  They  tell  me  you  have  ad 
vertising  interests,  on  the  q.  t. 

VAN  DYCK.     Well,  it's — it's  possible,  yes. 

STERRETT.     I'm  an  advertising  man  myself. 

VAN  DYCK.     Really? 

BILL  [helping  along].     S.  S.  Q.  &  L.  Agency. 

STERRETT.  Yes,  I  personally  handle  all  of  Mr.  Forbes* 
business. 

VAN  DYCK.     That  so? 

STERRETT.     Yes,  sir.     I've  made  the  nation  Forbes-conscious. 


igo  DULCY 

BILL.    Forbes — what? 

STERRETT.  Forbes-conscious.  I  have  made  Forbes  Jewelry 
Products  a  part  of  the  country's  buying  habit. 

FORBES.  It's  wonderful — wonderful  what  the  younger  gen 
eration  is  doing  in  a  business  way. 

GORDON.     It  certainly  is. 

FORBES.  Why,  when  I  was  breaking  into  business,  sir,  do 
you  think  that  a  young  man  like  that  would  have  been  en 
trusted  with  the  handling  of  such  important  matters? 

GORDON.     No,  sir. 

FORBES.     No,  sir — he  would  not!     Would  he,  Mr.  Parker? 

BILL  [with  a  look  at  STERRETT].     No,  sir,  he  would  not! 

FORBES.  But  to-day,  not  only  is  he  entrusted  with  them, 
but  he  is  actually  given  the  preference  over  an  older  man.  I 
find  myself  doing  it. 

STERRETT.  Oh,  I  don't  know,  Chief.  I'm  no  unusual 
specimen — that  is,  so  far  as  my  youth  is  concerned.  Mozart 
was  composing  at  fifteen ;  William  Cullen  Bryant  wrote  Than- 
atopsis  when  he  was  nineteen;  Homer  did  part  of  the  Iliad — 

BILL  [rising].  Suppose  we  all  go  out  and  look  at  the  gar 
den? 

GORDON.     Yes,  that's  a  good  idea. 

FORBES.     If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  put  my  car  in  your  garage. 

GORDON.     Certainly. 

FORBES.     That  is,  if  there's  room. 

GORDON.  Oh,  plenty.  Our  car  isn't  here  at  present.  It's 
being  repaired. 

BILL  [to  VAN  DYCK].  You  must  find  it  rather  a  relief 
to  get  away  from  business  occasionally. 

VAN  DYCK.     Yes,  just  to  relax.     It's  very  wonderful. 

FORBES  [turning  back  to  VAN  DYCK].  I  imagine  you've 
been  kept  pretty  well  tied  down  lately.  [All  except  STERRETT 
have  strolled  up  to  the  window.] 

VAN  DYCK.  Well,  yes — to  a  degree.  Of  course,  I  have 
things  pretty  well  systematized. 

FORBES.     Of  course. 

GORDON.  Now,  right  here  at  the  left  is  where  the  garden 
begins.  You  can  see  for  yourself —  [They  go  out  through 
the  windows — SMITH,  FORBES,  VAN  DYCK  and  BILL.  STER 
RETT,  somewhat  puzzled  at  losing  his  audience,  decides  to  go 
along.  ANGELA  comes  down  the  stairway.] 


DULCY  191 

ANGELA  [very  impersonally].     Oh,  hello,  Tom! 

STERRETT.     Angela!     I'm  here,  you  see! 

ANGELA  [selecting  a  magazine].     Yes,  I  see. 

STERRETT.     Well,  aren't  you  glad  to  see  me? 

ANGELA.     You  came  to  see  father,  didn't  you? 

STERRETT.     Why,  no — that  is — yes — but — 

ANGELA.     Have  you  seen  him? 

STERRETT.     Yes,  but — that  was  business  and — 

ANGELA.  I  know — it's  always  business  with  you  men. 
You're  all  alike. 

STERRETT.  You  talk  as  though  you'd  examined  the  whole 
city. 

ANGELA.  Well,  I  did  know  another  man  who  was  just 
like  you. 

STERRETT.    Who  is  he? 

ANGELA  [looking  up  from  the  magazine  for  first  time]. 
Oh,  don't  be  silly.  I  shouldn't  tell  you  even  if  you  weren't  so 
rude.  I  simply  say  you  are  all  alike.  Your  idea  of  romance 
is  to  sit  in  the  moonlight  and  talk  about  the  income  tax. 

STERRETT  [sitting  beside  her].  Now,  look  here,  Angela — 
you  know  I'm  crazy  about  you,  and  I've  told  you  what  I'll  do 
for  you.  I'll  devote  my  entire  life  to  you. 

ANGELA.     And  give  up  business? 

STERRETT  [swallows].  Well,  you  wouldn't  want  me  to 
give  it  up,  would  you?  Right  at  the  beginning  of  my  career! 
Why,  when  your  father  signs  these  new  contracts — 

ANGELA  [throwing  the  magazine  down  beside  her  and 
rising].  Contracts!  Bother  the  contracts!  It's  always  con 
tracts! 

STERRETT.     But  they  mean  our  future. 

ANGELA.  Our  future?  I  didn't  know  that  we  were  going 
to  have  any! 

STERRETT.  Well,  we  are!  You  just  watch  me!  I've  al 
ways  got  what  I  was  after  in  business,  and — 

ANGELA.     Well,  I'm  not — business! 

STERRETT.     I — I  didn't  mean  just  that,  Angela. 

ANGELA.  Oh,  sometimes  I  feel  that  I  don't  ever  want  to 
talk  to  another  business  man  in  my  life! 

STERRETT.  I  notice  that  you  don't  mind  talking  to  a  mov 
ing  picture  man,  though! 

ANGELA  [wheeling].     What  do  you  mean  by  that? 


i92  DULCY 

STERRETT.  I  saw  you  with  that  bird  Leach  at  the  Biltmore 
yesterday. 

ANGELA.  Well,  what  of  it?  Mr.  Leach  is  a  very  charm 
ing  man. 

STERRETT.     He's  got  a  swelled  head! 

ANGELA.     He's  entitled  to  one. 

STERRETT.     Look  here — has  he  been  making  love  to  you? 

ANGELA.     Well,  at  least  he  hasn't  been  talking  business. 

STERRETT.     Now  look  here,  Angela — 

ANGELA.  Oh,  Tom,  don't  be  silly!  If  I  didn't  know  any 
more  about  girls  than  you  do,  I'd  go  some  place  and  learn! 
That  other  man  talked  business,  too,  and  that's  why  I — what 
does  a  girl  care  about  business,  and  things  like  that?  She 
wants  something  else  in  her  life — that's  what  makes  her  a  girl ! 
She  wants  romance — and  a  thrill — and  something  real — and 
she  wants  a  man  to  be  like  all  the  heroes  she  ever  read  about — 
if  she  cares  about  him  at  all!  It  may  be  foolish  and  all  that, 
but  that's  what  she  wants  and  she's  bound  to  have  it!  She 
wants  someone  to  tell  her  how  wonderful  she  is — whether 
she  is  or  not — to  sweep  her  off  her  feet  and — carry  her  away — 
and —  [One  look  at  STERRETT'S  face  tells  her  that  all  this 
has  been  wasted.]  Oh,  I'm  going  out  into  the  garden!  [She 
flounces  through  French  window.  STERRETT  follows.] 

STERRETT.  Now  look  here,  Angela!  I  didn't  mean — 
[Enter  FORBES  and  SMITH.  FORBES  looks  back  after  AN 
GELA  and  STERRETT.] 

FORBES.     Smart  chap,  Sterrett. 

GORDON.     Yes,  he — seems  to  be. 

FORBES.     Wide-awake!    That's  what  I  like  about  him. 

GORDON  [eager  to  agree].  Yes,  wide-awake  chaps  certainly 
have  an  advantage. 

FORBES  [bluffly].  Now,  that's  the  kind  of  a  man  I'd  like 
for  a  son-in-law. 

GORDON  [mindful  of  DULCY'S  plans].     Son-in-law? 

FORBES.     Yes.     Good  business  head.     No  foolishness,  like 

most  young  people.     Substantial — that's  what  I  mean.     Lord 

knows,  Smith,  I'm  just  as  tolerant  as  anybody,  and  a  little  bit 

more  so,  but  if  there  is  one  thing  I  can't  stand  it's  this  frivol- 

headed,  gad-about  way  of  doing  things  they've  got  now-a-days. 

GORDON.     Oh,  absolutely.     Yes,  indeed. 

FORBES.     Damn  it — they — they  play  with  life — they  don't 


DULCY  193 

work.  And  it's  not  just  the  young  people  that  have  notions. 
The  worst  of  it  is  that — oh,  well,  what's  the  use!  [He 
pauses.]  That  reminds  me.  I  must  apologize  for  not  answer 
ing  that  letter  of  yours.  My  wife  comes  into  my  office  occa 
sionally  and  uses  my  stenographer — the  one  that  writes  Eng 
lish.  [He  tries  to  appear  half- joking. ,]  All  day  yesterday. 
She  likes  to  write  little  stories  and  movie  scenarios.  Of  course 
she  never  sells  them. 

GORDON.  Well — ah — probably  she's  just — seeking  self-ex 
pression. 

FORBES.  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  She's  quite  young — Angela's 
step-mother,  you  know.  [DuLCY  and  MRS.  FORBES  come 
downstairs.] 

DULCY.  Come  right  down,  Mrs.  Forbes.  Well,  here  we 
are!  No  more  business  now!  It's  time  to  play!  [To 
FORBES.]  You  know  one  thing  poor  Gordon  has  never 
learned  is  how  to  play!  He  takes  everything  so  seriously. 
Now,  what  I  like  to  do  is  cut  loose  once  in  a  while — just  be 
children  again.  Don't  you,  Mrs.  Forbes? 

MRS.  FORBES.     Yes,  indeed — away  from  everything. 

DULCY.  Gordon,  darling — why  don't  you  take  Mrs. 
Forbes  for  a  stroll  out  in  the  garden  before  dinner — she  hasn't 
seen  it  yet.  [GORDON  realizes  this  would  leave  DULCY  with 
FORBES.]  Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  it,  Mrs.  Forbes? 

MRS.  FORBES.     Indeed,  yes. 

DULCY.     Gordon ! 

GORDON  [turning  to  MRS.  FORBES.]     Why,  of  course. 

MRS.  FORBES.  It's  awfully  good  of  you.  You  have  a  beau 
tiful  place  here.  There  are  some  lovely  places  in  Westchester, 
aren't  there?  [MRS.  FORBES  and  GORDON  go  through  the  win 
dow,  GORDON  looking  back  nervously  at  the  possibilities  he  is 
leaving.] 

DULCY.  I've  got  the  most  wonderful  day  planned  out  for 
you  to-morrow,  Mr.  Forbes!  You're  going  to  play  and  play 
and  play! 

FORBES  [alarmed].  Me!  Thank  you  very  much — but  you 
know  I — 

DULCY.     Oh,  but  you  play  golf,  don't  you? 

FORBES.     Well — ah — thank  you.     It's  been  so  long  since — 

DULCY  [pursuing  him].  You'll  love  our  links — they're 
wonderful ! 


194  DULCY 

FORBES.  Yes,  but  I've  been  having  a  lot  of  trouble  with  my 
back  lately  and — 

DULCY.  Oh,  really!  That's  too  bad!  What  you  need  is 
exercise.  It  would  be  the  finest  thing  in  the  world  for  you. 
Now,  you  play  nine  holes  of  golf  with  Mr.  Van  Dyck  first  thing 
in  the  morning. 

FORBES.     But,  really,  Mrs.  Smith — 

DULCY  [indulgently].  You  remind  me  so  much  of  Gordon 
— that  poor  darling.  All  men  are  children.  You  know  he 
gets  hardly  any  exercise  at  all — he  works  so  hard,  the  poor 
boy.  I  don't  suppose  he's  told  you,  Mr.  Forbes,  but  he's  really 
got  a  lot  of  things  on  hand. 

FORBES.     Why,  no — 

DULCY.  You  might  just  as  well  know — it  isn't  only  the 
pearl  business.  He  has  lots  of  other  interests,  too. 

FORBES.     What's  that? 

DULCY.  It's  really  asking  too  much  of  him  to  make  him 
give  up  all  these  other  things  to  come  into  the  jewelry  com 
bination — that  is,  unless  it  were  made  worth  his  while. 
[DuLCY  effects  her  master  stroke.]  Of  course,  if  he  just  got 
sixteen  and  two-thirds  per  cent,  he  couldn't  afford  to  give  up 
all  his  time  to  it — no!  [VAN  DYCK  and  BILL  come  strolling 
through  the  window]  He'd  have  to  look  after  his  other 
things,  too,  and  you'd  be  the  loser. 

FORBES.  Why,  I  didn't  know  he  had  any  other —  [Door 
bell  rings] 

DULCY.  Oh,  there's  Mr.  Leach  now!  [Calling.']  Gor 
don  !  Gordon,  bring  Angela  in !  [She  sees  VAN  DYCK.]  Are 
you  having  a  nice  time,  Mr.  Van  Dyck?  We  want  everybody 
to  have  a  nice  time.  [GORDON  and  MRS.  FORBES  return. 
HENRY  enters  to  answer  the  door  bell] 

VAN  DYCK.     Oh,  delightful! 

DULCY.  You're  to  play  eighteen  holes  of  golf  with  Mr. 
Forbes  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  [FORBES  is  delighted] 

VAN  DYCK.     That  will  be  splendid! 

GORDON.     Now — now,  /  have  a  suggestion. 

DULCY.     Well,  what  is  it? 

GORDON.  Suppose  that  to-morrow  we  just  let  everybody 
go  the  way  they  want  to,  and —  [Enter  HENRY,  followed  by 
VINCENT  LEACH.  DULCY  swings  down  to  greet  him] 

DULCY  [with  great  enthusiasm].     Oh,  here  he  is! 


DULCY  195 

LEACH.  Mrs.  Smith,  dear  lady —  [VINCENT  LEACH  is 
young,  very  languid,  a  bit  effeminate.] 

DULCY.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  this  is  Mr.  Vincent  Leach, 
the  great  scenario  writer!  [FORBES  looks  up,  puzzled  and  an 
noyed.  BILL  is  merely  puzzled.  VAN  DYCK  is  politely  inter 
ested.  GORDON  is  all  but  crazy  with  apprehension.  MRS. 
FORBES  is  quite  in  her  element.  DULCY  passes  LEACH  over 
towards  MRS.  FORBES.]  Mrs.  Forbes,  Angela's  step-mother! 

LEACH    [enthusiastically].     Oh,  how  do  you  do! 

DULCY.  And  Mr.  Forbes,  her  real  father!  [FoRBES  rises 
slowly — his  dislike  has  been  immediate  and  intense.  LEACH 
does  all  the  bowing]  And  Mr.  Van  Dyck!  [They  bow] 
You've  met  Gordon,  haven't  you?  [LEACH  shakes  GORDON'S 
hand]  And  my  brother,  Willie. 

BILL.     Parker — William. 

DULCY  [ANGELA  and  STERRETT  appear  in  the  windows]. 
Oh,  here  she  is!  Well —  [She  leads  ANGELA  down  to 
LEACH.] 

ANGELA.     Why,  Mr.  Leach! 

LEACH.     Miss  Forbes! 

STERRETT  [with  cold  emphasis].     How  do  you  do,  Leach? 

LEACH.     Oh,  how  are  you? 

DULCY.     Didn't  I  tell  you  I'd  have  a  surprise  for  you? 

FORBES  [to  ANGELA,  as  she  stands  with  her  hand  still  in 
LEACH'S,  to  STERRETT'S  great  annoyance].  Oh,  then  you've 
met  Mr.  Leach  before? 

ANGELA.     Oh,  yes! 

DULCY.  Why,  didn't  you  know  about  it?  Mr.  Leach 
showed  us  through  his  studio  the  other  day.  He  almost  kid 
napped  your  Angela,  and  made  a  motion  picture  star  out  of 
her. 

FORBES  [not  quite  succeeding  in  being  pleasant  <about  it]. 
Oh,  is  that  so? 

DULCY.  We  saw  his  new  picture  being  taken.  Oh,  tell  us 
about  it,  Mr.  Leach!  [Whispering  loudly  to  everyone.]  Mr. 
Leach  is  a  scenario  writer — a  scenario  writer. 

LEACH  [correcting  her].  If  you  will  pardon  me,  not 
scenario  writer — scenarist — really. 

BILL  [in  mock  comprehension].     Oh,  scenarist! 

LEACH.  It's  the  more  modern  term.  The  scenarist  of  to 
day  is  quite  different  from  the  scenario  writer  of  yesterday. 


196  DULCY 

DULCY  [in  her  element].  Mr.  Leach  says  the  motion  pic 
ture  business  is  still  in  its  infancy. 

LEACH.  The  surface  has  hardly  been  scratched.  The  pos 
sibilities  are  enormous,  and  the  demand  for  new  people — new 
writers —  [He  turns  to  MRS.  FORBES.]  Oh!  Mrs.  Smith 
tells  me  that  you  are  writing  for  the  films,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Forbes ! 

MRS.  FORBES.     Well,  I'm — trying  to — 

LEACH.  Well,  you  go  on  writing — don't  give  up — don't  let 
anyone  discourage  you.  [FORBES  turns  away  with  a  mild  at 
tack  of  apoplexy.]  That  was  my  experience.  I  just  kept  on 
and  on  until — well,  you  see. 

BILL.     What? 

DULCY  [in  a  quick  aside].     You  shut  up,  Willie! 

LEACH  [to  MRS.  FORBES],  Yes,  you  just  keep  on  writing. 
[Then  generously  taking  them  all  in.]  All  of  you — and  go 
and  see  the  pictures.  See  them  and  see  them  and  see  them. 
[To  MRS.  FORBES  and  VAN  DYCK.]  Study  them!  [To 
MR.  FORBES.]  Learn  how  they're  made!  Now  in  my  last 
picture,  The  Sacred  Love — you've  all  seen  that,  I  take  it? 

DULCY.     Oh,  yes — a  wonderful  picture! 

MRS.  FORBES.    Yes! 

ANGELA.     I  saw  it  twice.     Once  with  you,  Tom. 

STERRETT.     Was  that  his  picture? 

LEACH.  There  were  some  points  in  that — did  you  see  it, 
Mr.  Forbes? 

FORBES  [wild  within].     No,  I — I  don't  believe  I  did. 

LEACH.  Really!  You  must  come  to  one  of  our  trade 
showings  at  the  Hotel  Astor — 

FORBES.    What  ? 

LEACH.  Just  a  moment.  [Consults  note-book.]  At  the 
Hotel  Astor,  next  Tuesday,  at  3  130.  Of  course,  it's — it's  only 
a  little  thing.  We're  going  to  do  some  big  things  later.  The 
possibilities — 

BILL  [ever  helpful].     Are  enormous. 

LEACH  [falling  for  it].  Oh,  very  big  .  .  .  you'd  be  sur 
prised!  Yes,  we're  going  to  do  some  of  Shakespeare's  things 
next. 

DULCY.  Shakespeare's?  Well —  [Her  arms  are  around 
her  husband's  shoulders  and  she  shakes  him  to  pick  up  the  cue.] 

GORDON  [coming  to].     Really! 


DULCY  197 

LEACH.  Yes,  I'm  at  work  on  his  continuity  now.  I  was 
telling  my  director  yesterday — I  said,  you  know,  Shakespeare 
had  a  tremendous  feeling  for  plot.  Of  course,  the  dialogue 
is  stilted  for  modern  audiences — but  then,  you  don't  have  to 
listen  to  that  in  the  pictures.  But  he's  still  the  master. 

DULCY.     He's  going  to  organize  his  own  company  next. 

BILL.     Who — Shakespeare  ? 

DULCY.     No,  Willie!     Mr.  Leach. 

LEACH.  Yes — the  Vincent  Leach  Productions,  Inc.  The 
stock  will  be  placed  on  the  open  market  very  soon. 

DULCY.  Mr.  Van  Dyck  can  tell  you  how  to  do  it!  He 
owns  lots  of  moving  picture  companies — don't  you,  Mr.  Van 
Dyck? 

LEACH.    Is  that  so? 

VAN  DYCK  [modestly f  as  always].  Well,  I'm  interested — 
in  a  small  way. 

LEACH.  I'd  enjoy  talking  to  you  about  it  later.  [To  MR. 
FORBES.]  And  how  about  you,  Mr.  Forbes?  Didn't  I  hear 
that  you  were  interested  in  pictures? 

FORBES  [turning  away  and  smothering  the  line}.  I  don't 
care  a  damn  about  pictures. 

LEACH  [not  believing  his  ears].     What's  that? 

FORBES.     I  said,  I  make  jewelry. 

LEACH.  Well,  of  course,  that's  very  necessary  too,  in  its 
way.  [FORBES'  mouth  opens — GORDON  rises  hurriedly.] 

GORDON.    Dulcy! 

DULCY.  Ah — let's  play  a  rubber  of  bridge  before  dinner! 
It's  so  nice  and  soothing.  [Patting  LEACH  for  fear  he  has  been 
offended.]  Let  me  see —  [To  MR.  FORBES.]  Mr.  Forbes, 
you  play  bridge,  don't  you? 

FORBES.     No,  I'm  afraid  not. 

DULCY.  Oh,  yes,  you  do — you're  just  modest.  Mr. 
Forbes —  [She  is  picking  the  card  players  out  with  cool  in* 
tent]  And  Mr.  Sterrett — and  Gordon —  And  I'll  make  the 
fourth.  Mr.  Leach.  [He  is  absorbed  in  ANGELA.]  Mr. 
Leach.  [He  turns]  Why  don't  you  and  Angela  go  out  on 
the  lawn  and  see  the  view? 

GORDON.     Dulcy,  dear — 

DULCY.    Where  the  Japanese  garden  is  going  to  be? 

ANGELA  [giving  LEACH  her  hand].     Come  on,  Vincent. 

LEACH    [putting  her  arm  through  his].     Yes,   I'd  love  to 


i98  DULCY 

see  you  framed  against  the  glowing  splendor  of  a  twilit  gar 
den.  [ANGELA  and  LEACH  go  out  through  the  window."] 

BILL.     My  golly,  the  man  even  makes  love  in  subtitles! 

FORBES.  I'll  see  if  my  car  is  still  in  the  garage.  I'll  come 
back — I  think.  [He  goes  out  through  the  window.] 

GORDON  [to  DULCY].  Now,  now,  you  see —  [He  goes 
out  quickly  after  FORBES.] 

BILL  [up  in  the  windows'].  You  know,  this  is  probably 
going  to  be  the  first  week-end  party  on  record  that  ended  on 
Friday  night.  [He  departs,  lugubriously] 

STERRETT.     I  think  I'll  go  back  to  my  book. 

DULCY  [somewhat  weakly].  We'll  be  starting  the  game  in 
a  minute,  Mr.  Sterrett.  [STERRETT  disappears]  Well,  I'll 
get  the  bridge  things.  [She  turns  in  the  doorway — only  MRS. 
FORBES  and  VAN  DYCK  are  left  on  the  stage]  Two's  com 
pany  and  three's  a  crowd!  [She  goes] 

MRS.  FORBES  [rising  with  a  self-conscious  laugh].  I  must 
go  and  dress  for  dinner. 

VAN  DYCK.  Oh,  please  don't  go — I've  been  wanting  to 
have  a  chat  with  you.  I've  been  hearing  all  about  you  this 
afternoon. 

MRS.  FORBES.     All  about  me?    From  whom? 

VAN  DYCK.     Mrs.  Smith. 

MRS.  FORBES.     Oh! 

VAN  DYCK.  So  you  see,  I  was  prepared  to  be  interested — 
even  before  I  met  you. 

MRS.  FORBES  [sitting].     And  now  the  disappointment? 

VAN  DYCK  [sitting  beside  her].  Oh,  far  from  it.  I  find 
you  even  more  interesting  than  I  had  anticipated.  You  have 
depths. 

MRS.  FORBES.     Are  you  going  to — tathom  them? 

VAN  DYCK.     If  I  may. 

MRS.  FORBES.  And  how  are  you  going  about  it?  [FORBES 
is  seen  strolling  behind  the  windows  at  back]. 

VAN  DYCK.  That's  my  secret.  But  tell  me,  first — you've 
been  married  just  a  short  time? 

MRS.  FORBES.  Not  so  short — four  years.  Why?  [FORBES 
comes  down  into  window;  sees  and  hears] 

VAN  DYCK.  Mrs.  Smith  tells  me  that  you  are  becoming 
quite  a  novelist. 

MRS.  FORBES.     Oh,  but  I'm  not  yet.    I  only — 


DULCY  199 

FORBES.     Is  that  you,  Eleanor?     [VAN  DYCK  rises.] 

MRS.  FORBES.    Yes,  dear. 

FORBES.     Oh ! 

VAN  DYCK.     I  shall  see  you  later,  I  hope. 

MRS.  FORBES.     I  hope. 

VAN  DYCK  [attempting  to  relieve  the  tension}.  I  suppose 
you  get  a  good  many  ideas  for  your  writings  from  your  hus 
band?  [The  tension  is  not  relieved.  VAN  DYCK  departs 
through  windows.} 

FORBES  [looking  from  VAN  DYCK  to  his  wife].     Well! 

MRS.  FORBES  [rises].     Well? 

FORBES.     What  did  that  mean? 

MRS.  FORBES.     Why,  nothing! 

FORBES.  Isn't  it  enough  to  have  Angela  go  prancing  off 
with  that — brainless — conceited — motion  picture  jack-ass? 

MRS.  FORBES.  Mr.  Leach,  do  you  mean?  Why,  he's  a 
charming  man,  and  very  successful. 

FORBES.  Bah!  And  on  top  of  it,  I  come  in  here  and  find 
you — spooning  with  Van  Dyck. 

MRS.  FORBES.  Why,  Charlie — how  can  you  say  such  a 
thing ! 

FORBES.     My  God,  didn't  I  see  it! 

MRS.  FORBES.     But,  Charlie,  dear — 

FORBES.  I  tell  you  this  whole  place  is  going  to  drive  me 
crazy!  I  didn't  want  to  come  here  anyhow!  I  had  a  back 
ache,  and  I  wanted  to  stay  home  and  rest. 

MRS.  FORBES.     But  you  couldn't  refuse — 

FORBES.  And  instead  of  that  I've  got  to  get  up  at  some 
ungodly  hour  in  the  morning  and  go  out  and  play  golf.  If 
there  is  one  thing  I  hate  more  than  anything  else  in  this  world, 
it's  golf — unless  it's  bridge  or  moving  pictures! 

MRS.  FORBES.  Now,  Charlie,  dear — when  you're  here  as 
a  guest — 

FORBES.  If  I  could  think  of  a  good  excuse,  I'd  go  back  to 
town  to-night  with  Sterrett,  and  take  Angela  and  you  with 
me. 

MRS.  FORBES  [alarmed].  But,  Charlie,  you  can't  do  that 
when — 

FORBES.  Don't  you  suppose  I  see  that  woman's  plan  to 
throw  Angela  and  that — that  film  thing  together! 

MRS.  FORBES.     But  I  tell  you  he's  a  most  charming  man. 


200  DULCY 

FORBES.  And  I  tell  you,  if  it  weren't  for  Smith  and  our 
business  relations  I  WOULD  go  back  to-night! 

MRS.  FORBES.  But,  Charlie — you  can't  be  so  rude !  [Enter 
GORDON.] 

FORBES.     Sh!     That  reminds  me — Oh,  Smith! 

GORDON.     Yes,  sir. 

FORBES.  Mr.  Smith,  Mrs.  Smith  has  been  telling  me  some 
thing  of  your  other  business  activities. 

GORDON.     Other  business  activities?    Why — 

FORBES.     And  it  came  as  something  of  a  revelation  to  me. 

GORDON.  But  Mrs.  Smith  couldn't  have  meant —  [VAN 
DYCK  returns  and  joins  MRS.  FORBES.] 

FORBES.  As  you  may  have  been  aware,  my  agreement  to 
admit  you  on  a  sixteen  and  two-thirds  basis  was  founded  on 
the  expectation  that  you  would  give  all  your  time  to  the  new 
enterprise. 

GORDON.     Yes,  of  course,  Mr.  Forbes. 

FORBES.  In  the  circumstances  your  business  and  your 
services  would  hardly  be  worth  that  amount  to  me. 

GORDON.  But,  my  dear  Mr.  Forbes — you — you  don't  un 
derstand.  Mrs.  Smith —  [Enter  DULCY,  bubbling  over.] 

DULCY.  Oh,  here  are  the  bridge  players!  Come  right  in, 
Mr.  Sterrett.  [Enter  STERRETT  and  HENRY,  carrying  the 
card  table.]  Henry,  put  the  table  right  here.  You  know,  I 
hope  you  men  don't  mind  playing  with  me — I'm  not  very  good. 
I  always  say  I  don't  really  play  bridge,  I  play  at  it.  But  I  do 
love  it,  and  after  all,  that's  what  counts,  isn't  it? 

FORBES  [worn  out].     Yes. 

DULCY.  That's  right,  Henry,  put  the  chairs  around.  Now, 
I  think  Mr.  Sterrett  will  sit  there.  [Indicating  chair  opposite 
her.]  I  shall  sit  here.  Let's  see — that  makes  you  my  partner, 
Mr.  Sterrett.  You  don't  mind,  do  you? 

STERRETT  [beyond  minding  anything'].  Not  at  all.  [STER 
RETT  takes  one  final  look  out  the  windows  after  ANGELA.] 

DULCY  [to  FORBES].  He  had  to  say  that.  You  know  I'm 
an  awfully  unlucky  player — I  never  have  a  finesse  go  right. 
Well,  unlucky  at  cards — lucky  at  love —  [Turning  to  GOR 
DON.]  Lucky  at  love,  Gordie,  darling.  You're  here,  of  course. 
[GORDON  is  evidently  worrying  about  what  DULCY  could  have 
said  to  FORBES.  FORBES  keeps  turning  uneasily  for  a  sight  of 
his  wife  and  VAN  DYCK.  DULCY  starts  to  deal.~]  Now 


DULCY  201 

look  at  me — I'm  dealing  when  I  ought  to  be  shuffling!  IS  he 
gathers  up  the  cards  and  shuffles  awkwardly.]  Come  along, 
Mr.  Sterrett!  We're  going  to  beat  them!  Bring  that  chair. 
[STERRETT  starts  to  follow  her  directions.  Three  more  misera 
ble  men  have  never  been  seen.]  Is  everybody  happy?  [The 
curtain  starts  slowly  down.]  Somebody  tell  me — which  is 
higher — a  heart  or  a  spade?  I  never  can  remember.  And  do 
you  discard  from  strength  or  weakness,  Mr.  Sterrett?  Of 
course  it  doesn't  matter —  [She  continues  her  chatter,  as 


[THE  CURTAIN  FALLS.] 


ACT  II 

The  scene  is  the  same  as  Act  I;  the  time  is  immediately  after 
dinner,  on  the  same  day.  Although  it  is  evening,  the 
French  windows  at  the  rear  still  stand  open.  The  stage 
is  in  semi-darkness — only  one  or  .two  of  the  lamps  are 
lighted — but  a  shaft  of  moonlight  shoots  through  the 
windows.  The  dining  room,  at  the  left,  is  brilliantly 
lighted,  and  the  chatter  of  many  people,  with  the 
clink  of  glasses  and  the  occasional  scrape  of  a  chair,  can 
be  distinctly  heard.  For  an  appreciable  period  after  the 
rise  of  the  curtain  only  the  sound  of  this  merry  gathering 
can  be  heard.  Over  the  others  the  voice  of  VINCENT 
LEACH  rings  out  clearly — "/  said  to  Mr.  Breitenstein, 
e  Don't  you  worry  about  those  German  films' ''  Then  the 
babble  drowns  his  further  remarks. 

DULCY,  resplendent  in  a  golden  evening  dress,  presently 
enters,  peering  back  as  though  expecting  someone  to  follow 
her.  She  beckons  excitedly  to  someone  in  the  other  room, 
and  MRS.  FORBES  enters. 

DULCY  [in  excited  tones}.     Isn't  he  wonderful? 

MRS.  FORBES  [also  flushed  with  excitement].     Who? 

DULCY.  Vincent  Leach !  [Banter in gly.~\  Ah,  you  thought 
I  meant  Mr.  Van  Dyck,  didn't  you?  Ah,  ha! 

MRS.  FORBES   [confused}.     Why — I  didn't  know — 

DULCY.  Now,  now!  It  doesn't  take  a  brick  wall  to  fall 
on  me.  But  seriously,  he's  mad  about  her! 

MRS.  FORBES  [with  just  a  touch  of  apprehension].  Do  you 
really  think  so? 

DULCY.  And  she  hasn't  taken  her  eyes  off  him  since  he 
arrived!  I  tell  you,  they're  in  love! 

MRS.  FORBES  [looking  off].  There  is — something  about 
him.  The  only  thing  is — 

DULCY.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  they  became  engaged — 
right  here  in  my  house.  Wouldn't  that  be  nice,  after  my 
bringing  them  together? 

202 


DULCY  203 

MRS.  FORBES.  But  you're  sure  it's  all  right — positive  that 
Mr.  Leach  is — 

DULCY.  Of  course,  I  am — he's  just  the  man  for  Angela. 
Ssh!  Here's  Mr.  Sterrett!  IT  he  two  women  draw  up 
against  the  wall  as  STERRETT  enters.  His  hands  are  deep  in 
his  pockets,  and  he  is  sore.  He  looks  back  as  he  enters,  then 
starts  across  the  room.  A  few  steps  further  he  looks  back 
again,  as  ANGELA'S  laugh  is  heard.  He  stalks  out  the  win 
dows.  DULCY  titters.'} 

DULCY.  He's  mad!  Let's  see  what  happened!  [ANGELA 
comes  running  on.  She  is  happily  excited,  being  pursued. 
LEACH  follows  her,  capturing  her  at  the  piano,  and  holding 
her  with  her  back  toward  him,  giving  MRS.  FORBES  and 
DULCY  a  chance  to  escape  into  the  dining  room  unseen.] 

LEACH.     Now  I've  got  you! 

ANGELA.     And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  me? 

LEACH  [turning  her  around].  I'm  going  to  tell  you — how 
wonderful  you  are. 

ANGELA  [liking  it].    Oh,  my! 

LEACH.  You  are!  You're  like  a  beautiful  warm  dawn — 
just  your  magic  presence —  [VAN  DYCK  and  MRS.  FORBES 
stroll  on  together] 

ANGELA  [stopping  LEACH].     Ssh! 

VAN  DYCK.  But  surely  if  one  has  a  talent  it  should  be 
developed. 

ANGELA.  Shall  we  sit  down?  [LEACH  makes  a  gesture 
towards  the  chairs  by  the  piano]  Oh,  not  there — here.  [She 
bounces  over  to  the  stairs  and  sits  behind  the  hydrangeas, 
LEACH  takes  his  place  beside  her] 

MRS.  FORBES  [convinced  by  now  she  is  a  potential  George 
Sand].  But  I'm  afraid  I'm  just  a  dabbler  and  always  will  be. 

VAN  DYCK  [sitting  beside  her].  Ah,  but  I'm  sure  you're 
wrong!  You  must  be  wrong.  [Enter  FORBES  and  GORDON. 
All  of  the  men,  except  STERRETT,  are  in  evening  clothes] 

FORBES.  Well,  as  a  straight  business  proposition  I  must 
say —  [He  sees  his  wife  with  VAN  DYCK,  and  stops  short] 
Huh!  [VAN  DYCK  gets  up  from  the  easy  chair] 

VAN  DYCK.     Sit  here,  Mr.  Forbes. 

FORBES.     No,  thank  you.     I  prefer  a  stiff  chair. 

GORDON.     Here  you  are,  Mr.  Forbes.     [Enter  BILL.] 

BILL.     Everybody  ready  for  a  nice  musical  evening?     [STER- 


204  DULCY 

RETT,  still  sulking,  comes  in  silently  through  the  French  win 
dows.  DULCY  enters  at  the  same  time,  and  immediately  takes 
characteristic  charge  of  the  situation.] 

DULCY.  Well,  this  is  going  to  be  jolly,  isn't  it?  Let's 
have  a  little  light  on  the  subject.  [She  switches  on  the  lights.} 
Let  me  see —  Yes,  everybody's  here.  [MRS.  FORBES,  anxious 
to  relieve  the  tension  maintained  by  her  husband,  leaves  VAN 
DYCK  and  follows  DULCY.  DULCY  puts  her  arm  around 
her.]  I  love  a  big  house  and  lots  of  company.  If  only  it 
were  a  winter  night,  we  could  gather  around  the  fireplace 
and  tell  ghost  stories.  [ FORBES  has  made  up  his  mind  to  sit 
and  has  headed  for  the  stiff  chair.  DULCY  seizes  him."]  Oh, 
no,  Mr.  Forbes — you  must  take  the  easy  chair — that's  for  you 
— yes.  [She  pulls  him  across  to  it.] 

FORBES  [cursing  the  conventions  of  chivalry"].  But  I  really 
would  rather — that  is — 

DULCY.  Now,  not  a  word — I  know  you're  polite  and  want 
to  leave  it  for  me,  but  I  insist  on  your  having  it.  [GORDON 
tries  to  head  her  off  but  his  efforts  are  unavailing.  DULCY 
forces  MR*  FORBES  into  the  chair.]  I  wouldn't  dream  of  any 
one  else's  having  it  but  you.  Now  sit  right  in  it — that's  right 
— way  back!  It's  awfully  comfortable — just  the  thing  after 
eating.  [MRS.  FORBES  has  seated  herself;  VAN  DYCK  is  enter 
taining  her.]  It'll  rest  you  for  to-morrow — for  your  horse 
back  riding. 

FORBES  [in  great  alarm].     Horse-back! 

DULCY.  Yes,  didn't  you  hear  us  talking  about  it?  In  the 
afternoon.  We're  making  up  a  party  to  go  to  the  Sound 
and  you're  in  it.  [Enter  HENRY  with  coffee,  on  a  tea  wagon. 
He  pushes  it  across  to  DULCY.]  Well,  who's  for  coffee? 
Coffee — coffee!  [BiLL  has  wandered  over  to  the  piano  and 
has  seated  himself.  DULCY  pours]  It's  a  lovely  ride  to  the 
Sound.  You'll  go,  won't  you,  Mr.  Van  Dyck? 

VAN  DYCK  [with  MRS.  FORBES].  What's  that?  Oh,  yes 
— yes,  indeed. 

DULCY  [whispering].  You  and  Mrs.  Forbes  can  go  to 
gether.  [FORBES  turns  around  to  locate  his  wife  and  daughter] 
I'll  ride  with  Mr.  Forbes.  Here  you  are,  Henry.  [HENRY 
serves.] 

GORDON   [to  FORBES].     Now  this  was  what  I  wanted  to 


DULCY  205 

show  you.  These  are  our  Number  Three's;  we  are  turning 
these  out  at  an  extremely  low  price,  and  the  German  formula 
can't  touch  them.  Just  examine  these.  [FORBES  puts  on 
glasses  and  does  so.  HENRY  returns  for  two  more  coffees; 
he  offers  one  to  FORBES,  who  refuses.] 

DULCY.  We're  going  to  have  a  lovely  day  for  it  to-mor 
row.  Did  you  see  that  sunset?  Angela,  you  and  Mr.  Leach 
are  to  go  along,  too.  And  Mr.  Sterrett — where  is  that  Mr. 
Sterrett? 

STERRETT  [behind  her}.     I'm  here. 

DULCY.     Oh!     There  you  are!     I'd  almost  forgotten  you. 

STERRETT  [submerged  in  gloom].     That's  all  right. 

DULCY.  It's  too  bad  you  can't  stay  over,  Mr.  Sterrett. 
I'm  sure  you'd  enjoy  it.  [HENRY  serves  ANGELA  and  LEACH, 
who  both  accept.  His  offers  to  BILL  and  STERRETT  are  re 
fused]  You  know,  the  paper  says  rain  for  to-morrrow,  but 
it's  always  wrong.  I  have  the  worst  luck  with  the  weather 
whenever  I  go  any  place.  When  I  take  my  umbrella  it  never 
rains,  and  if  I  don't  take  it —  [BlLL  has  started  on  a  solo  of 
"  Chop  Sticks  "  as  an  anodyne]  Come  away  from  the  piano, 
Willie.  .  .  .  Mr.  Van  Dyck  is  going  to  play  us  something — 
aren't  you,  Mr.  Van  Dyck? 

VAN  DYCK.  Why — ah — a  little  later.  [BiLL  starts  an 
other  one-finger  solo] 

GORDON.  If  you'll  examine  those  you'll  see  that  they  are 
the  same  grain  and  luster  as  the  Hammond  Number  Six, 

DULCY.     Oh,  do  stop,  Willie! 

FORBES.  Mmm.  [A  pause]  Angela!  [There  is  no  an 
swer]  Angela!! 

ANGELA  [coming  to].     Yes,  father. 

FORBES.  Just  let  me  see  those  pearls  of  yours  for  a  minute, 
will  you? 

ANGELA.  Yes,  father.  [ANGELA  and  LEACH  rise.  LEACH 
reaches  as  if  to  remove  the  pearls,  but  ANGELA  hands  him  her 
coffee  instead  and  removes  the  pearls  herself.  HENRY  steps  up 
to  ANGELA  to  relieve  her  of  the  pearls.  She  gives  them  to 
him.  BILL  strikes  a  bass  note  three  or  four  times  in  warning, 
rising  as  he  does  so.  DULCY  and  GORDON  rise,  their  eyes  on 
HENRY.  HENRY  gives  the  pearls  to  FORBES;  DULCY  gives  a 
huge  sigh  of  relief.  ANGELA  and  LEACH  resume  their  seat  on 


206  DULCY 

the  bench  again.  BILL  sits  again  at  piano.  Quiet  is 
restored.] 

DULCY.  Are  you  ready  now,  Mr.  Van  Dyck — it's  your 
turn! 

VAN  DYCK.  Oh,  really,  I — I  don't  think  that  I  should 
play.  Mr.  Forbes  and  your  husband  would  much  prefer  to  dis 
cuss  jewelry,  I'm  sure. 

DULCY.  Oh,  no,  they  wouldn't!  Would  you,  Mr.  Forbes? 
[He  is  studying  the  necklace.]  Mr.  Forbes! 

FORBES  [looking  up].     Huh? 

DULCY.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  hear  Mr.  Van  Dyck  play 
the  piano? 

FORBES.     Oh,  yes — yes. 

DULCY.  You  see — and  I  know  Mrs.  Forbes  wants  you  to 
play — don't  you,  dear? 

MRS.  FORBES.     Oh,  yes. 

DULCY.  And  /  do!  And  Willie —  [Another  solo  of 
BILL'S  is  obtruding]  Get  away  from  the  piano,  Willie — 
and  Mr.  Sterrett.  Now,  Mr.  Van  Dyck — 

VAN  DYCK.  Well,  if  you  insist.  [VAN  DYCK  seats  him 
self  and  starts  to  play.  The  selection  is  the  Chopin  Prelude, 
Op.  28,  No.  4] 

DULCY  [seated].  What  was  that  little  thing  you  played 
at  Mrs.  Kennedy's  this  afternoon?  [She  listens.  GORDON 
and  FORBES  are  discussing  jewelry  in  low  tones]  No — that 
wasn't  it.  It's  lovely,  though.  Carries  me  right  away.  [GoR- 
DON  and  FORBES  become  audible]  Quiet  everybody — quiet! 
[After  a  look  at  her  they  lower  their  tones,  but  not  enough 
to  satisfy  DULCY.]  Ssh!  [She  rattles  so??:e  noisy  bracelets. 
FORBES  turns  and  looks  at  her.  DULCY  giggles  at  him]  Oh, 
Mr.  Forbes!  I  thought  it  was  my  husband.  [DULCY'S  wan 
dering  eyes  light  upon  a  box  of  candy,  the  wrapping  still  on  it. 
She  makes  a  weak  attempt  to  turn  her  eyes  away  from  it  and 
then  picks  it  up  and  tears  off  its  paper  noisily,  whispering  across 
to  MRS.  FORBES.]  Candy  that  Mr.  Leach  brought!  Yes — 
wasn't  it  nice  of  him?  [She  removes  cover  and  ribbon,  opens 
box  and  offers  some  to  MRS.  FORBES  and  STERRETT  in  hoarse 
whisper]  Take  some!  [They  signal  refusal.  She  reaches 
it  towards  FORBES.]  Want  some  candy,  Mr.  Forbes? 
[FORBES  looks  around,  but  does  not  understand.  DULCY  creeps 
across  to  him]  Some  candy?  Sherry's!  Delicious!  Mo- 


DULCY  207 

lasses!  [She  is  heavily  sibilant.  FORBES,  unable  to  hear,  leans 
toward  her.  She  reaches  the  box  further  toward  him.  After 
seeing  the  candy  he  refuses.] 

FORBES.  No,  no,  thank  you.  [Returns  to  his  chair.  GOR 
DON  coughs  and  is  hushed.  DULCY  takes  a  piece  of  candy 
from  the  box  and  tastes  it;  does  not  like  it,  looks  about  to 
make  sure  no  one  is  observing — replaces  it.  BILL  rises,  comes 
down  and  selects  two  pieces.] 

DULCY.     Ssh! 

BILL  [whispering].    What? 

DULCY.  Ssh!  [The  music  suddenly  stops.  DULCY  drops 
candy  and  applauds.] 

BILL.     Ssh!     [The  ?nusic  begins  again.] 

DULCY  [in  a  whisper  to  MRS.  FORBES].  I  thought  he  had 
finished.  [VAN  DYCK  strikes  the  remaining  chords.  DULCY 
rises.]  Lovely!!  [Long  drawn  out.] 

MRS.  FORBES.     It  was  adorable! 

ANGELA.     I  loved  it! 

LEACH.  It  was — beautiful.  It  made  me  think  of  Araby 
and  the  moon-soaked  desert.  [He  loses  himself  in  the  desert 
for  a  second.]  Did  you  see  The  Virgin  of  Stamboul? 

BILL  [promptly].     No. 

DULCY.     No — I  don't  believe  I  did,  either. 

LEACH.  That's  too  bad.  You  know,  some  of  my  new 
picture  is  being  laid  in  the  desert,  and  that  would  be  won 
derful  music  for  it. 

DULCY  [getting  an  inspiration].     Oh! 

BILL.     What's  the  matter? 

DULCY.  I  have  an  idea.  [BiLL  moves  toward  the  door.] 
Why  not  have  Mr.  Leach  tell  us  the  story  of  his  new  picture, 
while  Mr.  Van  Dyck  plays  the  music  for  it? 

GORDON   [springing  up].     But — but,  Dulcy — 

DULCY.     It'll  be  just  like  a  moving-picture  theatre! 

LEACH  [with  fake  modesty].  Oh,  but  really — I  don't  think 
that  I  should — of  course,  it  would  be  interesting. 

ANGELA.  Oh,  please  tell  it,  Vincent!  [She  gives  a  look 
at  STERRETT.] 

STERRETT.     Yes,  do!     [Turns  away.] 

MRS.  FORBES.  I'd  love  to  hear  it,  and  so  would  my  hus 
band.  [She  throws  her  husband  a  look.] 

DULCY.     Well,  now  you  can't  refuse. 


208  DULCY 

LEACH  [with  no  thought  of  refusing].  Since  you  demand 
it. 

DULCY.  Oh,  good!  Now  everybody  take  their  places! 
Mr.  Van  Dyck,  you  go  back  to  the  piano!  [They  all  take 
seats.]  Mr.  Leach,  you  tell  him  what  kind  of  music  you  want! 
[BiLL  stands  motionless  and  noiseless.']  Be  quiet,  Willie. 
Now,  I'll  sit  here. 

BILL.  Mr.  Leach.  [A  pause.]  How  many  reels  is  this 
picture  ? 

LEACH.  There  are  eight!  [BiLL  sinks  into  his  chair.] 
It's  an  extra-super-feature,  not  released  on  the  regular  pro 
gram! 

BILL.     How  long  does  each  reel  take? 

LEACH.     Oh,  about  fifteen  minutes. 

FORBES  [looks  up].    Two  hours? 

BILL.     To  tell  it? 

LEACH.  Oh,  no,  to  show  it.  I  can  give  you  what  we  call 
an  outline  in  half  an  hour — well,  three-quarters  at  the  most. 

BILL.     That's  much  better — three-quarters.     That's  fine! 

DULCY.  Now  keep  quiet,  Willie,  or  he  won't  tell  it. 
What's  the  name  of  the  picture,  Mr.  Leach? 

GORDON  [striking  match].  We  can  have  a  smoke,  any 
how. 

FORBES.     Thanks. 

LEACH  [with  a  winning  smile].  Of  course,  I  must  have 
absolute  silence.  [FORBES  looks  at  him.] 

DULCY.  Of  course.  Tell  us  the  name  of  it.  [GORDON 
lights  his  own,  and,  as  FORBES  is  about  to  turn  for  his  light, 
LEACH  protests  amiably.] 

LEACH.  I  shall  have  to  concentrate,  and  if  there  are  any 
distractions — 

DULCY  [hastily].  There  won't  be  any — tell  us  the  name 
of  it. 

BILL.     Ask  him  what  it's  called. 

DULCY.     Shut  up,  Willie! 

LEACH  [waiting  a  moment  until  everyone  is  quiet].  The 
name  of  the  picture — 

DULCY  [lifting  an  arm,  and  thus  rattling  her  bracelets]. 
Quiet,  everybody! 

LEACH.  Is — Sin.  [This  to  the  men.]  Sin.  [To  the 
womenJ} 


DULCY  209 

DULCY  [Doing  her  bit].  Sin.  [VAN  DYCK  starts  the 
Rachmaninoff  Prelude.  LEACH  steps  up  and  stops  him.'] 

LEACH.  Not  yet.  And  when  I'm  ready,  just  a  soft  accom 
paniment.  [Starting  with  enthusiasm.]  This  is  really  some 
thing  quite  new  in  films.  I  am  going  to  show  Sin — throughout 
the  ages. 

DULCY  [with  anticipation].     Well! 

LEACH.  In  the  beginning  the  picture  is  symbolic.  I  open 
with  a  quotation  from  Hawthorne —  [For  the  men's  benefit.] 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

BILL  [raising  his  hand].  Who's  the  director  and  the 
cameraman  ? 

DULCY.    Willie! 

LEACH  [squelching  him].  The  director  is  Frank  Heming 
Stratton. 

BILL.  Oh!  [BiLL  prepares  for  as  comfortable  a  nap  as 
possible.] 

LEACH.  It  begins — with  the  setting  out — of  Noah's  Ark. 
[LEACH  signals  VAN  DYCK,  who  stars  "  Sailing,  Sailing." 
LEACH  considers  the  music  for  <a  second,  decides  it  will  do,  and 
continues.]  We  see  Noah,  a  man  of  advanced  years.  His 
wife,  his  sons,  the  animals — of  each  of  its  kind  two.  We 
see  the  Ark  setting  out  upon  its  journey — we  see  the  waters 
rise  and  rise  and  rise.  For  forty  days  it  rains.  [VAN  DYCK 
changes  to  ff  Rustle  of  Spring"]  Civilization  is  all  but  wiped 
out — it  is  kept  alive — and  SIN  is  kept  alive — only  in  the  Ark. 
[At  te  Sin  "  VAN  DYCK  changes  to  t(  Kiss  Me  Again."] 

DULCY  [in  hoarse  whisper  to  MRS.  FORBES].  "Kiss  Me 
Again." 

LEACH.  Then  comes  a  calm —  [VAN  DYCK  changes  to 
ff Morning  Mood"  (Grieg}.]  The  dove  is  sent  forth — it 
returns,  unable  to  find  a  lighting  place.  [Suiting  action  to  the 
word,  FORBES  strikes  a  noisy  match  and  lights  his  cigar,  un 
mindful  of  LEACH'S  glare.]  And  then  a  second  dove — and  // 
returns — and  then  a  third — and  it  does  not  return — for  some 
where  in  the  great  beyond  it  had  found  LAND.  [A  quick  sig 
nal  to  VAN  DYCK.]  LAND!  [VAN  DYCK  goes  loudly  into 
"My  Country  'Tis  of  Thee."  DULCY  automatically  rises, 
ever  patriotic.  LEACH  is  about  to  begin  again,  looks  at  her 
surprised.  DULCY  giggles  her  apology,  then  sits.  LEACH  con 
tinues  as  the  curtain  slowly  falls.]  Many  years  pass — we  are 


aio  DULCY 

now  at  King  Solomon's  Court — his  wives  are  bathing  in  the 
fountain —  [The  curtain  remains  down  for  a  few  seconds  to 
indicate  the  passing  of  thirty  minutes.  As  the  curtain  rises, 
LEACH,  somewhat  dishevelled,  is  still  talking.  BILL  is  asleep 
in  his  chair,  STERRETT  asleep  in  his  chair.  GORDON  has  fallen 
asleep  in  a  sitting  posture  as  though  he  had  attempted  to  be  a 
perfect  host  but  failed.  FORBES  is  the  one  man  wide-awake. 
He  is  chewing  the  stump  of  a  cigar  viciously,  breathing  heavily 
and  seems  to  be  wondering  how  many  seconds  he  can  stand  it 
before  he  commits  murder.  VAN  DYCK,  at  the  piano,  looks 
exhausted,  and  by  this  time  is  contributing  only  an  occasional 
chord.  MRS.  FORBES,  ANGELA  and  DULCY  are  still  "  eating 
it  up.Jf} 

LEACH  [talking  as  the  curtain  rises'}.  Frances  rushes  to  the 
edge  of  the  cliff,  and,  looking  over,  sees  an  inert,  lifeless  form. 
The  "  Weasel  "  is  dead.  [LEACH  pantomimes  his  excuses  hur 
riedly  and  takes  a  drink  from  a  glass  of  water  on  the  piano. 
HENRY  enters  to  clear  away  the  coffee  cups.} 

DULCY.  Not  yet,  Henry!  How  many  times —  [HENRY 
departs  with  a  shrug.}  Yes,  Mr.  Leach,  the  Weasel  is 
dead — 

LEACH  [picking  up  the  story}.  And  then — then  the  Zep 
pelin  and  Jack's  automobile  go  into  the  final  stretch  neck  and 
neck.  On — on  they  speed!  We  get  another  close-up  of  Jack 
in  the  driver's  seat!  We  see  his  face — tense — and  putting  into 
the  car  everything  that  he  has,  he  forges — slowly — slowly 
ahead!  Then  more  and  more!  The  goal  is  nearer  and  nearer! 
Back  in  New  York,  Charley  is  seen  leaving  the  Chinese  Res 
taurant!  On  the  corner  he  meets  Fanny,  who  throws  the 
money  in  his  face.  [For  emphasis  he  touches  FORBES'  arm. 
FORBES  jumps.}  Then  flash  back  to  Jack — nearer  and  nearer — 
HE  WINS.  [BiLL  is  rudely  awakened  and  springs  up.} 

BILL.     What? 

LEACH  [explaining].  He  wins!!  [BiLL  returns  to  his 
chair  and  nap  with  the  manner  of  a  man  annoyed  at  being  called 
too  early.  VAN  DYCK  strikes  a  chord.}  Gradually  he  stops. 
The  Zeppelin  makes  a  landing.  Coralie  gets  out  of  the  dirigi 
ble  and  rushes  to  Jack  to  forgive  him.  Just  as  he  takes  her 
in  his  arms,  her  father  arrives  with  the  afternoon  paper,  which 
makes  everything  clear  and  vindicates  Albert.  Then  the  father 
clasps  Jack's  hand  and  apologizes  to  him  for  having  thought 


DULCY  211 

him  the  thief.  And,  to  keep  the  symbolism  to  the  end,  just 
as  Jack  kisses  Coralie  there  in  Chicago,  Marc  Antony  is 
shown  kissing  Cleopatra  in  Ancient  Egypt  and  George  Wash 
ington  kissing  Martha  Washington  at  Mt.  Vernon.  And  so, 
at  the  end  of  the  Dream  Trail,  we  fade  into  a  long  shot  of 
Jack  and  Coralie,  once  more  in  their  South  Sea  bungalow, 
with  the  faithful  old  Toota  Heva  waiting  to  greet  them  in 
the  sunset — and  fade  out.  [VAN  DYCK  finishes  with  a  loud 
chord.  The  women  rise.  LEACH  rushes  to  them,  his  hands 
outstretched,  anticipating  their  congratulations.  The  women 
take  his  hands,  chattering.  VAN  DYCK  gets  up,  raising  his 
arms  and  exercising  his  fingers.  BILL  awakes  and  rises,  but 
finds  his  foot  asleep.  He  gradually  wakes  himself  up  by  some 
shakes  and  half-exercises,  and  awakens  GORDON,  who  also  has 
to  exercise  and  stretch  his  legs  and  arms.  STERRETT  likewise 
awakes.  FORBES  has  risen  and  holds  his  back.  HENRY  en 
ters,  clears  the  cups  and  saucers,  and  goes  again.] 

DULCY  [when,  the  excitement  has  died  down  a  little].  Oh, 
that  was  the  most  wonderful  picture  I  ever  saw!  [The  women 
echo  this.]  I  mean  heard!  Eight  marvelous  reels! 

BILL.  What  a  picture!  My  God,  what  a  picture!  [He 
slips  away.] 

FORBES  [through  his  teeth].  And  now,  Eleanor,  they  might 
enjoy  hearing  one  of  your  scenarios.  In  fact,  I'm  going  up 
stairs  and  get  one! 

MRS.  FORBES.  Charlie — you — you're  not  really  going  to 
get  one  of  mine! 

FORBES.  So  help  me  God!  [He  starts  up;  DULCY  stops 
him  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase] 

DULCY.  Mr.  Forbes,  wouldn't  you  like  to  play  a  game  of 
billiards? 

GORDON.     Ah!     Now,  that's  fine! 

FORBES.     Why,  yes,  I'm  very,  very  fond  of  billiards! 

DULCY.     There,  you  see,  Gordon,  darling! 

FORBES.     I  didn't  know  you  had  a  billiard  table. 

DULCY.     Why,  yes,  a  wonderful  one! 

GORDON  [indicating  the  door].     Downstairs. 

VAN  DYCK.  That  sounds  interesting.  May  I  look  on? 
[GORDON  has  gone  to  DULCY  and  squeezed  her  hand  in  ap 
preciation] 

GORDON  [at  door].     This  way,  Mr.  Forbes. 


212  DULCY 

FORBES.  Good  God,  why  didn't  you  mention  billiards  ear 
lier!  [VAN  DYCK,  GORDON,  and  FORBES  depart.'] 

DULCY  [to  MRS.  FORBES].  I  think  it's  good  for  the  men 
to  get  off  by  themselves  once  in  a  while — they  seem  to  like  it. 
Besides,  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you.  Angela  dear,  why  don't  you 
and  Mr.  Leach  go  out  for  a  stroll  in  the  moonlight?  It's  a 
wonderful  night,  in  the  moonlight. 

ANGELA.     Yes,  let's! 

LEACH.     The  moonlight!     I  would  adore  it! 

MRS.  FORBES.     You'd  better  put  on  a  wrap,  Angela. 

ANGELA.  Oh,  mother,  it  isn't  cold.  [ANGELA  and  LEACH 
stroll  off,  arm  in  arm.'] 

STERRETT  [taking  the  pretty  rough  hint].  I  guess  I'll 
watch  the  billiard  game.  [He  goes.  The  two  women  sit 
down.  DULCY  takes  the  box  of  candy  from  the  piano  and  puts 
it  on  a  stool  between  them.  They  eat  and  talk.] 

DULCY.     Isn't  everything  going  beautifully? 

MRS.  FORBES.    Ah — yes. 

DULCY.  I  think  Mr.  Forbes  is  beginning  to  like  Vincent, 
too. 

MRS.  FORBES.    Do  you? 

DULCY.  Don't  you  ?  Didn't  you  see  his  face — so  tense  and 
excited  while  Mr.  Leach  was  telling  his  story?  Wasn't  it 
nice,  with  Mr.  Van  Dyck  playing  the  piano? 

MRS.  FORBES.     He  plays  awfully  well. 

DULCY.     Has  he  said  anything  to  you? 

MRS.  FORBES.    Who? 

DULCY.  Mr.  Van  Dyck,  of  course.  Anybody  can  see  he's 
attracted  to  you — he's  an  awfully  nice  man,  and  he's  one  of 
the  Van  Dycks  of  Newport — if  you  ever  want  to  go  there. 

MRS.  FORBES.     Oh,  is  he? 

DULCY.  Yes,  I  could  fix  it  for  you.  [GORDON  and  FORBES 
return.  They  have  removed  their  coats.~\ 

GORDON.  Dulcy,  dear,  where  did  you  put  those  billiard 
balls? 

DULCY.     The  what?     [VAN  DYCK  comes  back.] 

FORBES.  The — billiard  balls!  It's — a  little  difficult  to  play 
billiards  without  them. 

DULCY.  'Oh,  the  billiard  balls! 

GORDON.    Yes. 

DULCY.     Did  you  look  in  the  pockets? 


DULCY  213 

GORDON  [sadly"].    There  are  no  pockets  on  a  billiard  table. 

FORBES  [willing  to  let  the  whole  world  go  hang].  What's 
the  difference — what's  the  difference? 

DULCY.  Maybe  I  did  put  them  some  place — now,  wait — 
I  wonder  if  I  could  have — no — I  put  the  curtains  there.  [A 
pause]  I'll  come  right  away  and  look  for  them.  I  think  I 
know  where  they  are.  Gordie,  you  and  Mr.  Forbes  come  with 
me.  [VAN  DYCK  starts  to  improvise  on  the  piano]  That's 
right,  Mr.  Van  Dyck — you  keep  Mrs.  Forbes  company.  [To 
FORBES.]  I'm  awfully  sorry  about  those  balls.  You  know, 
sometimes  I  think  I'd  lose  my  head  if  it  wasn't  fastened  on. 
[She  goes,  carrying  FORBES  and  her  husband  with  her] 

MRS.  FORBES.  We  can  go  along  and  watch  them  play,  if 
you  like. 

VAN  DYCK  [still  playing].     Do  you  want  to? 

MRS.  FORBES.     Not  particularly. 

VAN  DYCK.     Then  let's  don't. 

MRS.  FORBES  [listening  to  the  music].     That's  pretty. 

VAN  DYCK.     I  would  much  rather  talk  to  you. 

MRS.  FORBES.     A  clever  man  can  do  both. 

VAN  DYCK.     But  I'm  not  clever. 

MRS.  FORBES.     You're  at  least  modest. 

VAN  DYCK  [playing  all  through  this  speech].  No — I'm 
not  even  that.  The  downright  truth  is — I'm  embarrassed  by 
opportunities.  Here  I  have  a  moment  alone  with  you — you're 
perfectly  willing  to  be  entertained.  If  I  could  play  at  all  well 
— which  I  can't — I  should  dash  off  something  brilliant — now. 
And  if  I  could  talk  well,  which  I  can't,  I  should  simply 
scintillate — for  you.  But,  you  see — I'm  just  mediocre.  [A 
pause.  He  continues  to  play]  Perhaps  I  wouldn't  be  quite 
so  annoyed  with  myself  if  it  weren't  for  you. 

MRS.  FORBES.  But  you're  doing  splendidly.  You  have  a 
most  respectful  audience. 

VAN  DYCK  [stopping  playing  abruptly].  Oh,  please,  not 
that!  You  know  you're — charming. 

MRS.  FORBES.     And  just  what  is — a  charming  woman? 

VAN  DYCK.  A  charming  woman?  She's  the  one  I  never 
meet  until  she's  married  someone  else. 

MRS.  FORBES.     You're  incorrigible.     Play  something  more. 

VAN  DYCK.  Oh,  no.  [He  rises]  I  don't  feel  like  play 
ing.  What  do  you  say  to  a  stroll? 


DULCY 

MRS.  FORBES.     I'd  like  it.     I've  not  been  out  since  dinner. 

VAN  DYCK.     It's  pleasant  here,  isn't  it? 

MRS.  FORBES.     Yes,  isn't  it? 

VAN  DYCK.  I  have  a  little  place  like  this  in  the  East — in 
Abyssinia.  The  moonlight  comes  down  through  the  trees — 
have  you  ever  been  in  Africa? 

MRS.  FORBES.  No.  [They  start  out  through  the  win 
dows.] 

VAN  DYCK.  You  should  go  to  Africa.  I  have  some  dia 
mond  interests —  [They  stroll  out.  HENRY  enters,  takes  a 
glance  around  the  room,  and  arranges  the  cushions  on  the  divan. 
As  he  is  replacing  the  one  on  the  end  his  eyes  fall  upon  some 
thing  in  the  easy  chair.  He  picks  up  ANGELA'S  necklace, 
which  FORBES  had  dropped,  thinking  he  was  putting  it  in  his 
pocket.  HENRY,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  puts  it  in  his  own 
pocket  and  goes  up  the  stairs.  ANGELA  and  LEACH  enter 
through  the  windows.  ANGELA  is  considerably  excited.] 

ANGELA.     It  was  cool,  wasn't  it? 

LEACH.     Was  it? 

ANGELA.     Weren't  you? 

LEACH.  No — I  was — afire — afire  with  love  for  you,  An 
gela. 

ANGELA.     Why,  what  are  you  saying? 

LEACH.  Oh,  those  deep  burning  eyes!  The  mystery  of 
your  hair!  Angela,  you're  wonderful!  I  love  you!  Almost 
from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you,  I've  loved  you — wanted  you 
— longed  for  you!  Why,  I  patterned  my  newest  heroine  just 
after  you!  To  be  with  you  is  to  breathe  the  perfume  of  ex 
altation  !  Angela ! 

ANGELA  [breathlessly].     Vincent! 

LEACH.  I  am  offering  you  myself — everything  that  I  am — 
Oh,  it's  true  that  I've  knocked  about  some —  [Modestly.] 
A  good  many  girls  have  loved  me,  but  I  have  never  loved  any 
but  you,  dearest.  [He  kneels.]  Say  that  you  love  me — a 
little — even  though  that  love  is  now  no  greater  than  the  glow 
of  a  single  firefly  in  the  fading  day! 

ANGELA  [rising].     Oh,  Vincent — my  genius! 

LEACH.  My  sweetheart!  [He  kisses  her  and  then  holds 
her  off,  looking  at  her]  My  wonder  girl!  Will  you  marry 
me?  [ANGELA'S  head  drops  in  assent.]  And  the  day?  [Em 
bracing  her  again.]  Love  cries  for  its  own! 


DULCY  215 

ANGELA.    Whenever  you  say — Vincent. 

LEACH  [getting  an  Idea].  Why  not — ah — but  you 
wouldn't ! 

ANGELA.    What? 

LEACH.     Why  not  now — to-day — to-night? 

ANGELA.     To-night  ? 

LEACH.     Yes — why  not — elope! 

ANGELA  [pleased].  Elope!  [Sober, ]  Oh,  but  mother  and 
father — 

LEACH.  I  am  thinking  of  them.  Your  father  would  not 
understand. 

ANGELA.     Don't  you  think  so? 

LEACH.  No!  He  doesn't  know  how  our  hearts  cry  for 
each  other! 

ANGELA.     But  he  might  never — 

LEACH.  Darling,  since  the  beginning  of  Time  hearts  have 
been  broken  because  they  were  not  brave.  And  think  how 
romantic  it  would  be — you  and  I  stealing  away  in  the  night — 
just  we  two — together.  [He  draws  her  to  him,  they  embrace 
again.] 

ANGELA.     Oh,  Vincent! 

LEACH.     Angela,  dear! 

ANGELA.  And  we'd  not  tell  anybody?  [Withdrawing  a 
bit  from  him]  Oh,  Vincent,  I'd  have  to !  Mother  and — 

LEACH   [quickly].     But  not  your  father! 

ANGELA  [hesitant].  No,  I  shan't  tell  father.  But,  mother 
— and  Mrs.  Smith.  We'll  need  her. 

LEACH.  Just  think  of  it,  Angela — you  and  I  eloping! 
[They  embrace  again]  Won't  the  world  be  surprised!  [En 
ter  DULCY.] 

DULCY.  Oh,  excuse  me.  [They  break — embarrassed] 
I  haven't  interrupted  anything,  have  I?  [Ho.ping  to  God  she 
has] 

LEACH.    Why — no. 

ANGELA  [speaking  simultaneously  with  LEACH].  Why — 
yes. 

DULCY.  Can  I  guess  it?  [ANGELA  nods,  too  full  to 
speak]  Angela,  oh,  Angela —  [She  goes  to  her,  embracing 
her]  Oh,  if  this  isn't  the  most  wonderful  thing  I've  ever 
heard!  It's — it's — it's — it's — wonderful,  that's  all  I  can  say! 
I'm  so  happy  I  could  cry!  Good  news  affects  me  that  way. 


216  DULCY 

[She  turns  and  takes  VINCENT'S  hand,  which  he  has  been  hold- 
ing  out  expectantly .]  Vincent!  I  may  call  you  Vincent  now, 
mayn't  I  ? 

LEACH.     Of  course! 

ANGELA.     Mrs.  Smith — we're  going  to  need  your  help. 

DULCY.     Yes,  darling,  of  course. 

ANGELA.  Now,  it's  a  secret,  and  you  must  promise  that 
you  won't  tell  anyone. 

DULCY.     Why,  no — I  wouldn't  tell  a  soul. 

ANGELA  [after  an  assenting  signal  from  LEACH].  Well — 
Vincent  and  I — are  going  to  elope. 

DULCY.     E-elope? 

ANGELA.     To-night. 

DULCY.  T-t- to-night?  You  mean — run  away  and  get 
married?  [ANGELA  nods  her  head.}  Why — why — why — 
why — that's  wonderful — [she  grows  incoherent} — that's  just 
marvelous!  I  never  heard  of  anything  like  that!  It's — it's- 
why,  it's — 

ANGELA.     Now,  remember — you're  not  to  tell  a  soul! 

DULCY.  Oh,  no,  I  wouldn't  tell  anybody,  no —  How  soon 
are  you  going? 

ANGELA.     Just  as  soon  as  we  can — aren't  we,  Vincent? 

LEACH.     Yes!     If  we  can  get  away. 

ANGELA.     We  want  you  to  help  us! 

DULCY.  Of  course.  You — you — you — should  tell  your 
mother.  She'll  be  crazy  to  know  about  it. 

ANGELA.    Oh,  yes. 

DULCY  [indicates  windows}.  I  guess  she  must  have  gone 
out  there.  My,  I'm  so  excited  I  don't  know  what  to  do  next! 
I  just  feel  like  jumping  up  and  down !  [Enter  BILL.  DULCY 
rushes  to  him.}  Willie,  what  do  you  think!  [LEACH  and 
ANGELA  try  to  stop  her,  but  she's  too  fast  for  them.}  Vincent 
and  Angela  are  going  to  elope! 

ANGELA.     Oh!     And  you  promised — 

LEACH.     Now  you've — 

DULCY.  Well,  it — it  just  came  out  before  I  could  help  it. 
But — but  Willie  won't  tell  anybody.  You  won't  tell  anybody, 
will  you,  Willie? 

BILL  [slowly  to  ANGELA].  You're  going  to  elope?  With 
Mr.  Leach? 


DULCY  217 

ANGELA   [not  quite  meeting  his  eye].     Yes.      [BlLL   looks 
fro?n  ANGELA  to  DULCY,  then  back."] 

BILL.     I  won't  tell  a  soul. 

DULCY  [vindicated].     See? 

ANGELA.    Thank  you. 

BILL.     Where  are  you  going  to  elope  to? 

ANGELA.     Why — where  were  we,  Vincent? 

LEACH.     I  hadn't  thought  about  it  just  yet. 

DULCY.     There  are  lots  of  places — 

BILL  [after  a  glance  at  DULCY].  How  about  a  marriage 
license  ? 

ANGELA.  Why,  I  don't  know — Vincent?  [She  turns  to 
him.~\ 

LEACH  [weakly].  Well,  I  thought  we  might  find  some 
place — 

BILL.     Going  to  take  your  father's  car? 

ANGELA  [who  had  not  thought  about  it  before].     Yes! 

DULCY.     You  could  have  had  mine — but  I  broke  it. 

BILL  [to  DULCY].     I  suppose  this  was  your  idea. 

DULCY.    Well,  I  helped. 

BILL.  Yes,  I  could  tell.  [Again  to  ANGELA.]  Well, 
after  you  get  this  license  and  find  a  minister — 

DULCY.  Willie,  you  could  help  them  some  way,  couldn't 
you?  You  know  where  to  get  a  license  and  everything. 

LEACH.     Do  you? 

BILL  [a  pause].     Why — yes. 

DULCY.     See,  that's  why  I  told  him! 

BILL.  I  live  in — Bronxville,  and  I  know  the  borough  clerk. 
We  could  go  to  his  house  and  get  a  license. 

DULCY.     Oh,  that  would  be  lovely! 

ANGELA  [weakly].     Yes. 

LEACH  [dubiously].     Yes. 

BILL.  Yes.  Then  I  could  drive  you  wherever  you  wanted 
to  go,  and  bring  the  car  back — that  is,  if  Mr.  Leach  wants  it 
brought  back. 

DULCY.  You  see!  Everything  is  working  out  splendidly! 
Now  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do!  We'll— ah— we'll— ah— 
what  do  you  suggest,  Willie? 

BILL.     Is  everything  ready? 

ANGELA.    We  just  have  to  get  our  bags. 


218  DULCY 

DULCY.  They  just  have  to  get  their  bags.  Vincent,  now 
you  go  out  and  find  Mrs.  Forbes  and  tell  her;  then  we'll  all 
meet  in  the  garage  in  ten  minutes.  I'll  go  up  and  get  An 
gela's  things  for  her.  [She  starts  up,  then  turns  to  consider.} 
Now  let  me  see —  [Enter  STERRETT.] 

STERRETT  [coming  forward  with  attempted  carelessness}. 
Oh,  hello! 

DULCY  [weakly].     Hello. 

ANGELA  [also  weakly}.  Hello,  Tom.  [An  awkward 
pause.  STERRETT  sees  that  there's  something  in  the  wind  and 
that  he's  not  part  of  it.} 

DULCY  [coming  to  the  rescue}.     There's  nothing  the  matter. 

STERRETT.  Oh — excuse  me!  [He  turns  on  his  heel  and 
goes.} 

ANGELA.     You  don't  think  he  suspected? 

DULCY.  Of  course  not.  I  told  him  there  was  nothing  the 
matter.  Now  let's  see — Vincent — you  go  out  and  find  Mrs. 
Forbes,  and  then  go  to  the  garage  and  wait  for  us  there.  Now, 
quick,  quick!  Go  right  through  the  tomatoes! 

LEACH  [with  his  eye  on  BILL].  Yes,  but  you  know,  I  can 
drive  a  car,  too,  for  that  matter. 

DULCY.  Hurry  up!  The  less  speed  the  more  haste,  or 
something ! 

LEACH.  All  right.  [To  ANGELA.]  My  dream  woman! 
[He  is  gone.} 

DULCY.  Oh — well,  now  that's  settled.  I'll  go  up  and  get 
the  things,  and  we'll  all  meet  in  the  garage  in  ten  minutes! 

ANGELA.     I'll  go  with  you! 

DULCY.  No,  I'll  bring  everything  out  to  the  garage.  If 
anybody  sees  me  they  won't  suspect.  You  know,  I'm  so  ex 
cited!  Now  you  two  hurry  right  out!  Vincent  will  meet 
you  there!  My,  it's — it's  just  like  times  of  old  when  knights 
were  bold!  [She  gallops  up  the  stairs.  ANGELA  looks  uncer 
tainly  at  BILL,  starts  out  quickly,  then  pauses — to  face  what' 
ever  he  may  have  to  say.  BILL  turns  and  speaks  quietly.] 

BILL.     All  ready  for  the  elopement? 

ANGELA.     I  think — I  think  you're  just  horrid. 

BILL.     Speaking  to  me? 

ANGELA.     You  know  very  well  I  am. 

BILL.  But  of  course  you  don't  mean  it.  I'm  really  being 
very  good  to  you — helping  you  out  in  this  way. 


DULCY  219 

ANGELA.  Well — well — you  don't  have  to  be  so  happy  about 
it.  After  all  we — we  are  old  friends! 

BILL.     But  that's  why  I'm  glad.    You're  glad,  aren't  you? 

ANGELA.  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it!  [A  pause.'] 
Of  course  I  am!  [Another  pause.]  You're  just — just  im 
possible  ! 

BILL.  Angela,  you  told  me  once  that  I  would  never  change. 
You  were  right — I  never  have  changed. 

ANGELA  [almost  in  tears].  Oh,  I  don't  care  whether  you 
have  or  not !  I  think  you're  positively  hopeless !  [She  flounces 
out  through  the  French  windows.  BILL,  left  alone,  looks  after 
her  a  moment,  then  starts  out,  but  seeing  someone  coming 
downstairs,  he  pauses  at  the  window.  It  is  HENRY  on  the 
stairs.  He  wears  a  sack  coat  and  is  carrying  a  derby.  He 
seems  hurried  and  nervous.  As  he  turns  to  go,  BILL  touches 
him  on  the  shoulder.  HENRY  starts.] 

BILL.     Hello,  Henry! 

HENRY  [collecting  himself].     Yes,  sir. 

BILL.     What  seems  to  be  the  trouble? 

HENRY  [nervous].     Trouble,  sir? 

BILL.     Yes. 

HENRY.  Oh,  no  trouble,  sir.  Have  you  the  time,  sir? 
[BlLL  takes  out  watch,  somewhat  absent-mindedly  holding  it 
too  closely  to  HENRY — then,  realizing  this  mistake,  turns  away 
to  consult  it] 

BILL.     Sixteen  minutes  after  ten. 

HENRY.  Thank  you,  sir.  Excuse  me,  sir.  [He  hurries 
out.  BILL  stands  a  moment,  undecided  whether  to  investigate 
HENRY,  then  turns  and  goes  out  through  windows.  Enter 
GORDON  and  FORBES.] 

GORDON.  I'm — I'm  sorry,  but  Dulcy — my  wife — must 
have  had  the  table  moved  for  some  reason,  and  then  didn't  get 
it  quite  level  when  it  was  put  back. 

FORBES.  Oh,  that's  all  right — that's  all  right.  In  fact,  it 
was  rather  novel — playing  billiards  up  and  down  hill. 

GORDON.  Probably  I  can  have  it  fixed  before  you  go  home, 
and  then — 

FORBES.  Doesn't  matter,  I  assure  you.  I — ah — I — don't 
care  very  much  for  billiards,  anyhow. 

GORDON  [growing  desperate].  Some  other  time,  then. 
Maybe  you'd  like  to— to  look  at  some  new  golf  clubs  I  just  got? 


220  DULCY 

FORBES.  What?  [MRS.  FORBES  comes  through  the  win 
dows.  She  is  in  a  state  of  suppressed  excitement,  which  be 
comes  more  suppressed  when  she  finds  her  husband  present.] 

MRS.  FORBES.     Oh,  hello,  dear! 

FORBES  [sourly'].     Hello. 

MRS.  FORBES  [fencing].     Who  won  the  billiard  game? 

FORBES  [violently].     Mrs.  Smith! 

MRS.  FORBES.     Have  you — seen  anybody? 

FORBES.     Have  I  what? 

GORDON  [anxious  to  get  away].  Suppose  I — go  and  lay 
out  those  golf  clubs  awhile,  and — then  you  can  come — later. 

FORBES  [almost  viciously].    Yes — suppose  you  do. 

GORDON.  Yes,  yes.  All  right — all  right.  [He  wipes  his 
forehead  nervously  as  he  goes  out.] 

MRS.  FORBES  [casting  apprehensive  glances  up  the  stairs  and 
out  the  windows].  What's  the  matter,  dear? 

FORBES.  What's  the  matter?  Why — why — good  Heavens, 
the — the— 

MRS.  FORBES  [half  fearful  that  he  has  learned  about  the 
elopement].  Nothing  has  happened,  has  it? 

FORBES.     Happened?     I  should  say  it  has! 

MRS.  FORBES  [alarmed].     What? 

FORBES.  I  go  in  here  to  play  a  game  of — [viciously] — 
billiards.  I  think  finally  that  I'm  going  to  get  ten  minutes  of 
pleasure  out  of  this  week-end,  and — and — what  do  I  find? 

MRS.  FORBES  [sweetly].    Well? 

FORBES  [yelling].  What's  the  difference?  [A  pause] 
You  don't  give  a  darn — you  just  go  ahead  carrying  on  with 
that  fellow  Van  Dyck. 

MRS.  FORBES.     But,  sweetheart — 

FORBES.  Oh,  I  saw  the  way  that  woman  fixed  it  up  for 
you!  And  Angela — where's  Angela? 

MRS.  FORBES  [nervously].  I  don't  know,  dear.  [DuLCY, 
carrying  two  suitcases,  comes  tiptoeing  down  the  stairs.  MRS. 
FORBES  sees  her  and  DULCY  wigwags  to  her  to  be  quiet. 
FORBES  is  well  down  stage,  with  his  back  to  DULCY.] 

FORBES.  Out  gallivanting  with  that  moving  picture  nin 
compoop,  I  suppose.  More  of  that  woman's  work! 

MRS.  FORBES.     Mr.  Leach — do  you  mean? 

FORBES.  Yes,  Mr.  Leach  I  mean!  [DuLCY  has  reached 
the  windows;  MRS.  FORBES  is  signaling  to  her.]  Just  imagine 


DULCY  221 

having  a  fellow  like  that  in  the  family — telling  you— outlines. 
And  the  idea  of  you  standing  idly  by  while  he  and  Angela — 
[He  sees  MRS.  FORBES'  signals.}  What  the  devil's  the  matter 
with  you?  [DuLCY  slips  through  the  windows.] 

MRS.  FORBES.     Why,  nothing,  dear. 

FORBES.  Then  stand  still!  And  listen  to  me.  If  I  find 
this  Leach  person  actually  making  love  to  Angela,  why,  I'm — 
I'm  going  to  raise  hell,  that's  all.  It's  been  nothing  but  a  series 
of  aggravations — annoyances — ever  since  I  came  into  this  house. 
Eleanor,  I  can  truthfully  say  that  in  all  my  fifty-three  years  I 
have  never  spent  an  unhappier  evening. 

MRS.  FORBES.     Oh,  Charlie! 

FORBES.  But  I  am  not  going  to  spend  another!  I  am  not 
going  to  stay  here  and  ride  golf  and  play  horse-back! 

MRS.  FORBES.     What  are  you  going  to  do? 

FORBES.     I  am  going — home! 

MRS.  FORBES.     Charlie! 

FORBES.  I'm  going  upstairs  and  pack!  I  promised  Sterrett 
I'd  drive  him  in  to-night,  and  I'm  not  coming  back!  There's 
another  thing!  The  way  they're  treating  Sterrett!  [Starting 
up  the  stairs.]  Good  night! 

MRS.  FORBES.     Charlie — you  can't  do  that! 

FORBES.  Maybe  I  can't,  but  I'm  going  to !  You  can  stay 
here  with  Van  Dyck  and  watch  Angela  carrying  on  with  that 
Leach  person  if  you  want  to.  BUT — mark  my  words — if  any 
thing  comes  out  of  this — if  Angela  and  that  fool  are  infatuated 
with  each  other,  and  try  to  do  anything  silly — I  don't  ever 
want  to  see  you  or  her  again !  That — is  all !  [He  storms  up 
the  stairs.  MRS.  FORBES  looks  after  him  a  minute.  DULCY 
enters  through  the  windows  and  romps  over  to  MRS. 
FORBES.] 

DULCY  [gleefully'].     Well,  they're  gone! 

MRS.  FORBES.     Oh,  I'm  scared!    Can't  you  call  them  back? 

DULCY.     Huh?    Why,  it's  lovely! 

MRS.  FORBES.  No — no!  I've  got  to  tell  him!  If  I  don't 
he'll — he'll  never  let  me  come  back  to  him!  He  means  it — I 
know  him ! 

DULCY.  Vincent  and  Angela  have  eloped  and  everything's 
fine! 

MRS.  FORBES.  Fine?  But — but — oh,  it  was  all  your  doing! 
That  and — Mr.  Van  Dyck,  and — everything!  Charles 


222  DULCY 

would  never  have  talked  to  me  like  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
you.  [Sobbing.]  He  never  talked  to  me  like  that  before. 

DULCY.     Why,  Mrs.  Forbes,  dear,  you're  tired. 

MRS.  FORBES.  No,  I'm  not!  I'm  just  mad,  that's  all — 
mad  at  you!  It's  all  your  fault!  If  my  husband  ever  knows 
that — that  I  knew  they  were  eloping,  and  didn't  stop  it,  why, 
he'll — he'll — oh,  I  don't  know  what  he'll  do!  [She  breaks 
down,  sobbing] 

DULCY  {wanting  to  pat  her  and  not  quite  daring  to]. 
There,  there,  dear.  Why,  he  won't  do  anything.  He'll  be  the 
first  to  congratulate —  [Enter  GORDON.] 

GORDON  [coming  toward  them}.  Good  Heavens,  what's 
all  this  about?  What's  the  matter? 

DULCY.  It's  nothing  at  all,  darling.  Just — just — 
[FORBES  comes  down  the  stairs.  He  is  wearing  a  duster  and 
carrying  his  hat  and  suitcase] 

GORDON.    Why,  Mr.  Forbes! 

MRS.  FORBES.     Charlie! 

FORBES  [still  boiling  within}.  Mr.  Smith — I — I  am  re 
turning  to  New  York — important  business.  My — ah — wife 
and  my  daughter  will  remain  here,  I  believe.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  them. 

GORDON.     But,  Mr.  Forbes,  I  don't  understand. 

FORBES.  So  far  as  our  little  deal  is  concerned,  I — I  haven't 
made  up  my  mind  yet  whether  to  go  ahead  with  it  or  not. 

GORDON.     My  dear  sir — 

MRS.  FORBES.  Oh,  Charlie — Charlie — I  want  to  tell  you 
something!  [She  starts  towards  him,  but  DULCY  stops  her] 

DULCY.  Now,  Mr.  Forbes,  you  don't  really  mean  what 
you  are  saying.  When  in  anger,  you  should  always  count  ten. 

GORDON  [sternly].  What  is  this  all  about?  [Everybody 
starts  to  tell  him  at  once  and  all  are  talking  as  VAN  DYCK 
enters  through  the  windows] 

VAN  DYCK.  I've  got  it!  [Seats  himself  at  piano]  I  just 
thought  of  it! 

DULCY.     Ah — ah — huh? 

VAN  DYCK.  You  know,  that  little  thing  I  couldn't  remem 
ber.  It  was  a  little  Sicilian  love  song — it  went  like  this.  [He 
launches  into  a  pretty  little  thing] 

FORBES  [after  a  few  bars  have  been  played,  in  great  indig 
nation].  Oh!!  [He  stalks  out  through  windows.} 


DULCY  223 

GORDON.  Mr.  Forbes — Mr.  Forbes!  [He  follows  him 
out.] 

MRS.  FORBES.     Charlie — Charlie!     [She  follows.] 

DULCY.    Oh,  Mr.  Van  Dyck! 

VAN  DYCK.  Do  tell  me,  what's  the  trouble?  Is  Mrs, 
Forbes — 

DULCY  [shaking  her  head].     It's — it's  Mr.  Forbes. 

VAN  DYCK.     Mr.  Forbes? 

DULCY.  He  just  got  angry — for  no  reason  at  all,  and 
now  he's  going  back  home  in  his  car.  .  .  .  [She  remembers 
that  the  car  is  gone.]  He  thinks. 

VAN  DYCK.     Dear  me! 

DULCY.  But  the  worst  of  it  is — he's  awfully  angry  at 
Gordon,  and — he  won't  go  ahead  with  the  business  thing. 

VAN  DYCK.  Business  thing?  Is  that  the — now,  I  don't 
want  to  seem  inquisitive,  but  is  that  the  jewelry  merger  I've 
heard  discussed? 

DULCY.  Yes.  Didn't  you  know?  Well,  Mr.  Forbes  was 
getting  up  one,  and  he  was  going  to  give  my  Gordie  some  of  it. 
[Her  mood  changes.]  I  hope  it  is  all  off — only  sixteen  and 
two-thirds  per  cent. 

VAN  DYCK.  Just  a  minute.  As  I  understand,  it  was  a 
combination  which  would  have  taken  in  about  fifty  per  cent  of 
the  jewelry  trade. 

DULCY  [approaching  tears].     Yes,  I  think  so. 

VAN  DYCK.  And  now  Mr.  Forbes  is  leaving  your  hus 
band  out  of  it?  Is  that  right? 

DULCY.  Yes.  [VAN  DYCK  considers  very  seriously.] 
Why?  Oh,  dear,  maybe  I  shouldn't  have  told  you.  [VAN 
DYCK  in  deep  thought.]  Oh,  oh,  I  wish  I  hadn't  told  you. 
[VAN  DYCK  wheels  with  decision.] 

VAN  DYCK.     Mrs.  Smith! 

DULCY.    Well? 

VAN  DYCK.  Mrs.  Smith,  I  like  your  husband  very 
much. 

DULCY  [greatly  pleased] .     Oh,  do  you  ? 

VAN  DYCK.  Would  he  be  willing  to  get  up  his  own 
merger,  one  bigger  than  Mr.  Forbes  ever  dreamt  of? 

DULCY.     Why — what  do  you  mean? 

VAN  DYCK.  Why  doesn't  he  beat  Mr.  Forbes  at  his  own 
game? 


224  DULCY 

DULCY.  Why — why — I  never  thought  of  that.  But  Mr. 
Forbes  has  all  the  money — and — and  Gordie  hasn't  any. 

VAN  DYCK.  That's  it  exactly!  Now,  I've  always  wanted 
to  take  a  little  flier  in  the  jewelry  business.  Suppose  I  financed 
Mr.  Smith — suppose  he  and  I  set  out  to  beat  Mr.  Forbes  to 
gether?  How  would  that  be? 

DULCY  [incoherent'].  Be?  Be?  Why,  it  would  be  in- 
creditable — unbelievable!  [Tearfully. ]  You — do  you  really 
mean  it? 

VAN  DYCK.  I  do.  I'll  put  up  my  check  the  moment  your 
husband  says  the  word. 

DULCY  [crying  with  joy].  Oh,  Mr.  Van  Dyck,  you've — 
you've  made  me  the  proudest  woman  in  all  the  world!  You 
let  me  break  the  news  to  him,  won't  you? 

VAN  DYCK.     Why — of  course,  if  you  wish  it. 

DULCY.  And  to  think  I  introduced  you  to  him!  Now, 
what  will  he  think  of  me!  [Excited  voices  are  heard  off.~\ 

VAN  DYCK.     It's  Mr.  Forbes  again! 

DULCY.     Is  it? 

VAN  DYCK  [at  the  door].  Perhaps  I'd  better  go.  My 
golf  things  are  fearfully  rumpled.  Will  I  find  your  man 
Henry  through  here? 

DULCY  [her  mind  on  other  matters].  He's  around  some 
where.  [VAN  DYCK  goes.  DULCY  is  almost  hysterical  with 
happiness.  The  voices  outside  become  definite.] 

MRS.  FORBES.  But,  Charlie  dear,  calm  down  a  little,  and 
don't  fly  off  the  handle! 

FORBES.  Handle!  Handle,  madam!  Do  you  realize  what 
has  happened?  [He  enters  during  this  speech,  wearing  his 
coat  and  hat,  and  still  carrying  the  suitcase.  Stops  short  at 
sight  of  DULCY;  then  walks  to  her  with  terrible  calm.]  Mrs. 
Smith.  [He  pauses.]  Mrs.  Smith,  upon  going  to  your  garage, 
I  first  discovered  that  my  car  was  gone. 

DULCY.  Oh,  but  that's  nothing —  [GORDON  appears  in 
the  windows.] 

FORBES.  Just  a  moment,  please!  My  wife  thereupon  in 
formed  me  that  you  had  told  her  that  my  daughter  and  Mr. 
Leach — have  eloped!  [He  is  throwing  a  terrific  emphasis  on 
every  word.] 

GORDON.    What! 

FORBES.     Is — this — true? 


DULCY  225 

DuLCY  [quaking,  but  trying  to  be  gay  about  it].  Yes — 
yes!  You  see — 

MRS.  FORBES.  It  wasn't  my  fault,  Charlie — honestly! 
[FORBES  silences  her  with  a  gesture,  his  eyes  not  leaving 
DULCY.] 

FORBES.  Mrs.  Smith —  [turning]  and  Mr.  Smith.  I  am 
measuring  my  words  very  carefully.  Since — my  car — is  gone 
— and  the  last  train — is  gone,  it  seems  that  I  shall  be  compelled 
to  remain  in  this  house — over  night.  [He  pauses — his  eyes 
find  DULCY.]  I  shall — endeavor  not  to  commit  a  murder. 

GORDON.  My  dear  Mr.  Forbes,  Fm  sure  this  can  be  fixed 
up  in  some  way. 

DULCY.  Yes.  Of  course  it  can.  [The  old  DULCY  for 
a  second]  You  know,  an  angry  word  spoken  in  haste — 

FORBES.  Please!  [He  turns  to  GORDON.]  Mr.  Smith, 
in  the  circumstances  I  don't  see  how  we  can  possibly  get  on 
in  business  together.  I  don't  like  your  methods! 

GORDON.     But,  Mr.  Forbes — 

FORBES.  I  shall  not  call  the  matter  off  entirely,  but  any 
arrangement  which  we  might  eventually  make  would  neces 
sarily  differ  from  our  tentative  discussions  as  to  percentage. 
[GORDON  starts  to  speak]  I'm  sorry,  but  that's  my  decision! 
[STERRETT  comes  running  on  through  the  windows] 

STERRETT.  Mr.  Forbes,  Mr.  Forbes —  [He  comes  between 
FORBES  and  GORDON.] 

FORBES  [snapping  at  him].     Well,  what  now? 

STERRETT.     Your  car  is  not  in  the  garage! 

FORBES.     You  don't  say  so! 

STERRETT.  Leach  and  Angela  were  acting  awfully  funny! 
If  you  ask  me,  I  think  they've  eloped  in  it! 

FORBES.     I  was  not  aware  that  I  had  asked  you! 

STERRETT.  But — how  am  /  going  to  get  back  to  town  to 
night  ? 

FORBES.  You — might — try — skipping!  [STERRETT  tries  to 
pass  this  off  as  a  laugh,  but  a  look  from  FORBES  squelches  him. 
He  arranges  an  exit  for  himself] 

STERRETT.  Ah — well — 111  see  if  I  can  find  them.  [He 
goes — somewhat  precipitately] 

FORBES  [to  GORDON].  I  repeat — the  percentage  would 
have  to  be  adjusted.  And  now  I  wish  you  good  night!  [He 
makes  for  the  stairs] 


226  DULCY 

MRS.  FORBES.     Oh,  Charlie,  mayn't  I  come  with  you? 

FORBES.  It  is  a  matter  of  utter  indifference  to  me  where 
you  go! 

MRS.  FORBES.  Oh,  but,  Charlie,  it  wasn't  my  fault — 
really  it  wasn't!  I  didn't  know  anything  about  it  until 
after  they  eloped!  [MRS.  FORBES  follows  her  husband  up 
stairs.] 

DULCY  [gleefully'].     Gordie! 

GORDON  [turning  and  looking  at  her].  My  God,  are  you 
smiling  ? 

DULCY.     I've  got  the  most  wonderful  news  for  you! 

GORDON  [his  anger  rising].  Is  it  a  surprise?  [A  pause.] 
Dulcy — Dulcy,  how  could  you? 

DULCY.     How  could  I  what? 

GORDON.  You've  ruined  me — that's  all.  Ruined  me. 
Dulcy,  I'm  afraid  we  don't  hit  it  off  very  well — you  and  I. 
This  thing  is  too  big.  Say  what  we  may,  it's  come  between 
us. 

DULCY.    Oh,  no,  it  hasn't,  darling.    Wait  till  you  hear. 

GORDON.     Hear?     Hear  what? 

DULCY  [rising  and  approaching  him].  How  would  you 
like — to  have  Schuyler  Van  Dyck  for  a  partner? 

GORDON.     A — partner?     [Going  mad.]     More  golf? 

DULCY.     Business. 

GORDON.     Huh  ? 

DULCY  [with  great  excitement].  How  would  you  like  to 
go  in  business  with  him,  and  have  Taylor  and  Robbins  and 
Spelvin  and  all  those  other  people  with  you,  and  leave  Mr. 
Forbes  out  of  it?  Get  up — a — a — bigger  merger  than  Mr. 
Forbes  ever  thought  about,  because — because  you'd  have  all 
the  money  you  wanted!  Mr.  Van  Dyck  said  so! 

GORDON  [dazed] .     He — says  so  ? 

DULCY.     Yes!     Think  of  that! 

GORDON.  Here!  Wait  a  minute!  You've — you've  been 
talking  to  Van  Dyck? 

DULCY.     Yes — just  now! 

GORDON.  And  he  said  that  he'd  finance  a  combination  to 
beat  Forbes  and  his  crowd — with  me  at  the  head  of  it? 

DULCY.  He's  just  waiting  for  you  to  say  the  word,  dar 
ling! 

GORDON.     I — I — I — can't  believe  it. 


DULCY  227 

DULCY  [caressing  him  as.  if  to  restore  his  senses].  But  it's 
true — it  is,  dear. 

GORDON.  Why,  it's — it's  too  good  to  be  true.  I — I  could 
be  rid  of  Forbes  and  put  the  business  in  for  what  it's  worth. 
I — I  could — 

DULCY  [excited].     Yes — oh,  Gordon! 

GORDON.  I — I  can  really  do  big  things!  Why —  [FORBES 
comes  downstairs] 

FORBES.  Excuse  me.  [  DULCY  and  GORDON  break. 
FORBES  is  the  pathetic  sight  of  a  strong  man  reduced  to  tears.] 
I  am  sorry — to  be  compelled  to  make — another  statement.  I 
merely  wish  to  announce — on  top  of  everything  else — that  my 
daughter's  pearl  necklace  has  disappeared. 

DULCY.     Disappeared  ? 

GORDON.     What's  that? 

FORBES.  In  view  of  the  fact  that  it  took  place  in  this 
house,  I  thought  you  might  have  a  sentimental  interest.  I 
put  it  in  my  pocket  not  three-quarters  of  an  hour  ago,  and 
now —  [Enter  VAN  DYCK,  speaking  as  he  comes  in] 

VAN  DYCK.  I'm  sorry,  but  I've  been  all  over  the  house  and 
I  can't  find  Henry  any  place.  [VAN  DYCK  senses  that  he  faces 
a  situation  of  some  sort]  He  must  have  gone  out.  [GORDON 
and  DULCY  exchange  terrible  looks.  DULCY  is  the  first  to 
recover] 

DULCY.     Henry! 

GORDON.     Well,  I'll  be— 

FORBES.  What's  that?  Who's  Henry?  What's  he  got  to 
do  with  it? 

VAN  DYCK.  I'll  look  again,  but  I'm  certain  he's  not  here. 
[He  is  about  to  start  out] 

GORDON  [stopping  him].  Before  you  go,  Mr.  Van  Dyck — • 
[VAN  DYCK  halts]  And  just  a  second,  Mr.  Forbes — • 
[Stopping  FORBES.]  We'll  straighten  out  about  the  necklace 
later.  Mr.  Van  Dyck,  I  understand  that  you  have  offered  to 
back  me  with  unlimited  capital  in  an  independent  jewelry 
merger?  [DuLCY  sits,  enjoying  the  situation] 

FORBES.     WHAT? 

GORDON.     Am  I  correct? 

VAN  DYCK.  You  are!  Mrs.  Smith  has  interested  me  very 
much  in  this  matter.  I'll  put  up  the  necessary  capital,  pro 
vided,  of  course,  we  can  agree  on  the  details. 


228  DULCY 

GORDON  [willing  to  agree  to  anything].  Oh,  there'll  be  no 
difficulty  about  that.  [With  dignity]  I  accept  your  offer. 
Mr.  Forbes,  you  said  a  minute  ago  that  you  were  not  certain 
whether  or  not  our  deal  was  off.  Well,  I've  decided!  It  is 
off!  I  am  going  to  line  up  with  Van  Dyck  and  fight  you — 
fight  you  till  one  of  us  is  forced  to  the  wall.  But  before  I 
do  it,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  why  I'm  fighting  you!  I'm  fight 
ing  you  because  you  tried  to  take  advantage  of  me ! 

FORBES.     Advantage  ? 

GORDON.  Yes,  advantage!  By  offering  me  less  than  you 
knew  my  business  was  worth!  You  knew  I  was  in  a  hole, 
and  now  you're  going  to  get  just  what  you  deserve!  You're 
going  to  get  a  first  rate  licking! 

DULCY.     Oh,  Gordie! 

VAN  DYCK  [anxious  to  get  away].  I — I'll  see  if  I  can 
find  Henry,  but  I'm  afraid  he's  gone.  [He  slips  out.] 

FORBES.  All  right.  Make  your  fine  speeches,  but  when 
you  talk  about  fighting,  don't  forget  that  I  can  fight,  too. 
And  before  you  win,  you're  going  to  know  that  you've  been 
in  a  real  fight!  Remember  that!  [He  goes  upstairs.] 

DULCY  [rising  and  going  to  GORDON].  Gordie,  darling, 
you  were  wonderful!  [Embraces  him]  But  the  necklace! 
Do  you  think  Henry — 

GORDON  [impatiently].  What's  the  difference  whether  he 
did  or  not?  I  feel  like  a  new  man. 

DULCY.     Gordie,  you  see — I  was  of  some  use  after  all. 

GORDON.  Use !  You  were  wonderful !  [  Taking  her  in  his 
arms.]  The  best — the  finest  little  wife  in  the  world.  [He 
kisses  her.]  I'm  going  to  beat  Forbes,  dear — I'm  going  to 
succeed — and  I'll  owe  it  all  to  you. 

DULCY.     Wasn't  it  lucky,  my  finding  Mr.  Van  Dyck? 

GORDON.     Lucky!     It  was  an  inspiration! 

DULCY.     And  I  am  a  real  helpmate? 

GORDON.     My  darling!     [She  is  again  in  his  arms] 

DULCY.  My  Gordie!  [The  door  bell  rings]  That's  the 
door  bell.  You'll  have  to  answer  it,  darling,  since  Henry  isn't 
here. 

GORDON.  One  of  the  neighbors,  probably.  [He  goes  outf 
leaving  the  door  open] 

DULCY.     Oh,  Henry!     [Voices  are  heard  off  stage] 

PATTERSON.     Is  this  Mr.  Smith's  house? 


DULCY  229 

GORDON.    I  am  Mr.  Smith. 

PATTERSON.  Can  I  speak  to  you  a  moment  on  a  rather 
important  matter  ? 

GORDON.  Won't  you  step  in?  [Enter  BLAIR  PATTERSON. 
A  man  somewhat  under  middle-age,  well  groomed,  and  with 
quite  an  air  of  authority.  He  makes  a  good  impression.  GOR- 
DON  follows  him  on,  closing  the  door.]  Ah — my  wife. 

PATTERSON.  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Smith?  I  must  apolo 
gize  for  calling  at  this  hour.  My  name  is  Patterson — Blair 
Patterson. 

GORDON.    The  attorney! 

PATTERSON.    Yes.    I  was  referred  to  you  by  Mrs.  Kennedy. 

DULCY.     Oh,  across  the  street? 

PATTERSON.  Ah — yes.  She  said  you  had — guests.  I  just 
wondered  if — among  them — there  is  a  Mr. — Morgan?  Can 
you  tell  me? 

GORDON.    Morgan?    Why,  no. 

DULCY.    No. 

PATTERSON.    Well — is  there  a  Mr.  Ford? 

GORDON.     No.     He's  not  here  either. 

PATTERSON.    Mr. — Vanderbilt? 

GORDON  [somewhat  flattered].    Vanderbilt?    No. 

PATTERSON.     Mr. — Astor  ? 

GORDON  [more  flattered  and  somewhat  surprised}.  No.  I 
don't  understand. 

PATTERSON.  H'm.  Well,  let  me  ask  you — is  one  of  your 
guests — tall,  good-looking,  plays  the  piano,  interested  in  various 
— ah — investments —  ? 

DULCY  [proudly] .     Oh,  you  mean  Schuyler  Van  Dyck  ? 

PATTERSON  [thoughtfully}.     Schuyler — Van  Dyck. 

DULCY.    He's  here. 

PATTERSON  [slowly].  Yes,  I  think  I  do  mean  Schuyler 
Van  Dyck.  I'm  his  cousin.  [GORDON  and  DULCY  are  cor 
diality  itself.]  I — I've  come  for  him. 

DULCY.     Come  for  him? 

PATTERSON.  Yes.  His  real  name  is  Patterson — Horace 
Patterson.  He  has  an  hallucination  that  he's  a  millionaire. 
Goes  round  forming  big  companies —  But  I  assure  you  he's 
perfectly  harmless.  [He  taps  his  head  significantly  as 

[THE  CURTAIN  FALLS.] 


ACT  III 

The  scene  is  the  same;  the  time  is  the  following  morning. 
The  windows  are  open  and  bright  morning  sunlight  is 
pouring  into  the  room. 

\The  curtain  rises  on  a  bare  stage  and  after  a  second  FORBES 
comes  downstairs.  He  is  utterly  broken.  After  throwing 
a  hard  look  toward  the  easy  chair  he  sits  stiff  and  upright 
in  the  side  chair,  groaning  as  he  sits.  He  takes  out  his 
cigar  case;  it  is  empty ;  with  a  growl  he  rises  and  looks 
in  humidor  on  table.  There  is  nothing  there.  He  sits 
again  in  the  same  chair. 

STERRETT  comes  tripping  down  the  stairs. 

STERRETT  [blithely}.    Good  morning,  Chief! 

FORBES.     Got  anything  to  smoke? 

STERRETT.  Oh,  sure.  [STERRETT  hauls  out  his  cigarette 
case  and  opens  it.] 

FORBES.     I  meant  a  cigar. 

STERRETT.     Oh — just  a  minute.     [He  goes  for  humidor^ 

FORBES.  There's  none  there.  None  any  place.  Mrs. 
Smith  probably  discovered  that  I  like  cigars. 

STERRETT.     Haven't  you  any  in  your  room? 

FORBES.  Yes,  but — ah — I  don't  want  to  disturb  Mrs. 
Forbes. 

STERRETT.    Oh,  I  thought  you  had  separate  rooms. 

FORBES  [viciously'].     No.     We  have  the  bridal  suite. 

STERRETT.  Well,  Mrs.  Forbes  must  be  up  by  this  time. 
Why  don't  you  go  up  and — 

FORBES  [rising].     Sterrett. 

STERRETT.    Yes,  Chief. 

FORBES.  I  don't  want  this  to  go  any  further — but  I  did 
not  sleep  in  the  bridal  suite  last  night.  I — took  a  walk  until 
rather  late  and  when  I  returned  everyone  had  gone  to  bed. 
I  didn't  know  just  which  rooms  were  unoccupied,  so  I  slept 
on  a  couch  in  the  hall. 

230 


DULCY  231 

STERRETT.     All  night? 

FORBES.  Now  and  then.  I  tiptoed  into  my  room  about 
four  o'clock  this  morning  to  get  this —  [Indicating  his  busi 
ness  suit.]  Did  you  ever  try  to  get  a  suit  of  clothes  out  of  a 
closet  in  the  dark,  without  making  any  noise? 

STERRETT.    Why,  no. 

FORBES  [putting  hand  to  his  head].    Oh,  dear. 

STERRETT.     You're  not  ill,  Chief? 

FORBES  [sitting'}.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised.  It  would  be 
too  much  to  expect  to  get  out  of  this  with  just  a  mental  break 
down  and  a  celluloid  son-in-law. 

STERRETT.     Nothing  new  on — the  necklace,  I  suppose? 

FORBES.  Oh,  yes.  It  was  brought  back  and  I'm  wearing 
it. 

STERRETT.    You're  what? 

FORBES.  Don't  you  see  it?  [STERRETT  makes  a  weak  at 
tempt  at  a  laugh.} 

STERRETT.  Oh,  Chief — Chief — you  certainly  have  a  sense 
of  humor. 

FORBES  [grimly}.  Yes,  and  at  this  time  of  the  morning 
I'm  at  my  best. 

STERRETT.     But — ah — I  meant  the  police. 

FORBES.     Huh? 

STERRETT.     The  police  were  sent  for,  weren't  they? 

FORBES.  Probably.  I  asked  Mrs.  Smith  not  to  send  for 
them,  so  I  suppose  she  did. 

STERRETT.     Well,  if  I  were  you,  I'd  put  them  right  on  it. 

FORBES.  It  may  seem  impossible  to  you,  Sterrett,  but  there 
are  times  when  it  does  not  pay  to  advertise.  You  may  recall 
that  my  daughter  eloped  last  night. 

STERRETT.  It  has  been  a  very  painful  experience  for  me, 
Chief. 

FORBES.  Well,  damn  it,  you  don't  think  it's  been  any 
diversion  for  me? 

STERRETT  [hastily].  Oh,  of  course  not.  [Trying  to  say 
something  comforting.]  As  her  father  I  can  keenly  appreciate 
how  you're  going  to  suffer. 

FORBES  [giving  him  a  look].  Thank  you.  The  reason  I 
don't  want  the  police  sent  for  is  that  I'm  not  anxious  to  have 
my  daughter's  elopement  become  public. 

STERRETT.     Oh ! 


£32  DULCY 

FORBES.  I  can  see  the  newspaper  headlines  now.  "  Daugh 
ter  of  C.  Rogers  Forbes  Elopes  With  Nut."  [A  pause.] 
I'm  going  to  have  it  annulled — quietly. 

STERRETT  [an  idea  dawning'].  Maybe  they  didn't  get  mar 
ried  ! 

FORBES.    What? 

STERRETT.  Maybe  they're  not  married  yet!  They  couldn't 
get  a  license  last  night!  I'll  telephone — 

FORBES.  They  made  special  arrangements  to  get  a  license. 
Mrs.  Smith's  brother  saw  to  that.  H'm.  I  rather  liked  him. 
I  wondered  what  he'd  do. 

STERRETT.     I  never  trusted  him. 

FORBES.  And  on  top  of  everything  else,  the  third  member 
of  the  family  gets  the  Van  Dyck  money  behind  him  and  prac 
tically  tells  me  to  go  to  hell. 

STERRETT.  Certainly  is  an  unlucky  house.  What  time 
are  we  going  back  to  town  ?  [GORDON  comes  downstairs.'] 

FORBES.     Just  as  soon  as  possible. 

GORDON  [who  hasn't  slept  either.  Meekly].  Good  morn 
ing. 

STERRETT  [right  back  at  him].     Good  morning. 

FORBES  [after  hesitating].     Good  morning.     [Looks  away.] 

GORDON.  Breakfast  will  be  ready  in  a  minute,  if  the  cook 
is  still  here.  [GORDON  goes  out,  FORBES  not  noticing  that  he 
has  left  the  room.  MRS.  FORBES  comes  downstairs.] 

FORBES.  Mr.  Smith —  [Rises.]  After  taking  into  con 
sideration  everything  that  has  happened  here  since  my  arrival — 
[FORBES  turns  at  this  point  and  notices  GORDON  is  not  in  the 
room,  but  sees  MRS.  FORBES.] 

MRS.  FORBES  [to  FORBES].  Good  morning —  [Finishing 
it  to  STERRETT.]  Mr.  Sterrett. 

STERRETT.     Good  morning,  Mrs.  Forbes. 

MRS.  FORBES.     Aren't  you — going  to  speak  to  me — Charlie? 

FORBES.  I'm  speaking  to  no  one.  [GORDON  returns.]  I 
will  take  up  our  affairs  when  I  get  back  to  the  city — if  I  ever 
do.  [He  sees  GORDON.]  Mr.  Smith,  I  was  about  to  say, 
when  you  walked  away  a  minute  ago —  [DuLCY  comes  down 
stairs.  She  is  wearing  bright  sport  clothes  and  is  ready  for  a 
busy  day,  but  is  somewhat  subdued.] 

DULCY.  Good  morning,  everybody.  All  ready  for  break 
fast?  It's  a  lovely  day,  isn't  it?  Has  anyone  been  out?  The 


DULCY  233 

sun  is  shining;  it's  just  good  to  be  alive.  How  do  you  feel 
this  morning,  Mrs.  Forbes? 

MRS.  FORBES.     I'm  rather  depressed. 

DULCY.  Depressed?  Well,  you  mustn't  be.  I  have  some 
wonderful  news  for  you.  It's  a  surprise.  Who  do  you  think 
will  be  here  inside  an  hour? 

FORBES.     A  couple  dozen  reporters,  I  suppose. 

DULCY  [almost  singing  it].     A  bridal  party. 

FORBES.     So  they  are  married! 

DULCY.  Yes.  Willie  phoned  me  just  now.  He  said  they 
had  trouble  getting  in  touch  with  the  license  clerk.  I  suppose 
all  those  people  are  like  policemen — when  you  want  one  you 
never  can  find  one.  Anyway,  they  got  him  up  at  last  and  they 
were  married  at  midnight. 

FORBES.     By  a  Justice  of  the  Peace? 

DULCY.  No,  indeed.  By  Dr.  Carmichael — he's  one  of  the 
finest  ministers  in  Westchester.  Willie  knows  him  awfully 
well,  so  I  suppose  he  did  it  as  a  special  favor.  Wasn't  it  nice 
of  him? 

FORBES.     Yes,  I  appreciate  it. 

DULCY.  So  now  you  have  a  genius  in  the  family,  Mr. 
Forbes. 

FORBES.     Is  he  returning  the  car? 

DULCY.  Oh,  of  course — they'll  be  here  any  minute  now — 5 
the  happy  couple. 

FORBES.     You  can  give  them — the  bridal  suite. 

DULCY.     But  where  will  you  sleep? 

FORBES.  I  shall  be  returning  to  town  as  soon  as  the  car 
arrives.  [To  GORDON.]  Mr.  Smith,  I  hope  we  can  have  a 
little  talk  before  I  go. 

GORDON  [meekly].'    Just  as  you  say,  Mr.  Forbes. 

DULCY.  Now,  now,  no  business  before  breakfast.  Come 
along — let's  all  go  in  before  the  grape  fruit  gets  cold.  [She 
returns  to  FORBES  and  takes  his  arm.]  Mr.  Forbes.  You 
come  in  with  me. 

FORBES  [disengaging  himself].  No,  thank  you.  I'm  afraid 
I  must  be  excused.  I'm  not  very  hungry  this  morning.  [He 
goes  up  into  windows.] 

DULCY  [feeling  the  rebuff].  Mr.  Sterrett,  you'll  eat  some 
breakfast,  won't  you? 

STERRETT  [always  willing].     Why,  surely. 


234  DULCY 

MRS.  FORBES  [stepping  toward  her  husband}.  There  isn't 
— anything — the  matter,  is  there,  Charlie? 

FORBES.  The  matter?  Oh,  no!  Fm  just  too  happy  to 
eat.  [He  stamps  through  the  windows.] 

DULCY.  Gordon,  darling,  you  must  eat  some  breakfast. 
Come  along. 

GORDON.     Dulcy,  will  you  go  ahead  and  leave  me  alone? 

DULCY  [persistent].  Mrs.  Forbes,  you'll  have  some  break 
fast?  [MRS.  FORBES  nods.]  Ah!  [Victorious.']  You  know, 
Fm  never  myself  until  Fve  had  a  cup  of  coffee  in  the  morning. 
[STERRETT  opens  the  door  for  them]  Of  course,  we're  all 
depressed  now,  but  maybe  after  breakfast  I'll  think  of  some 
thing  to  cheer  us  up.  [All  but  GORDON  depart;  BLAIR  PAT 
TERSON  comes  downstairs] 

PATTERSON.     Good  morning,  Mr.  Smith. 

GORDON.  Oh,  good  morning,  Mr.  Patterson.  You — slept 
well,  I  trust. 

PATTERSON.  Thank  you — yes.  [Earnestly]  Fm  very 
sorry  to  have  caused  you  this  trouble. 

GORDON  [dejectedly].  Oh,  that's  all  right.  Ready  for 
breakfast  ? 

PATTERSON.  Thank  you.  I'll  take  Mr.  Patterson  home 
with  me  just  as  soon  as  he  can  get  his  things  together. 

GORDON.  There's  no  hurry — any  more.  Have  you — told 
him? 

PATTERSON.  No,  he  hasn't  seen  me  yet.  I'll  not  have  any 
difficulty;  it's  happened  before. 

GORDON.     He's — a  cousin,  I  believe  you  said? 

PATTERSON.  A  distant  cousin — it's  really  too  bad.  Bril 
liant  chap — agreeable — obliging — 

GORDON.     He  certainly  is. 

PATTERSON.  Quite  all  right.  Lives  on  Long  Island  with 
his  mother  and  sister.  Just  this  one  hallucination. 

GORDON.     That's  all  he  has? 

PATTERSON.  Oh,  yes.  Now  and  then  he  wanders  off  alone 
like  this,  but  happily  he  never  causes  any  real  trouble. 

GORDON.     He  doesn't,  eh?     That's  fine. 

PATTERSON.  It's  a  little  hard  on  me — being  compelled  to 
round  him  up  at  intervals.  I  have  to  divide  my  activities  as 
a  lawyer  with  those  of  a  truant  officer. 

GORDON.     Yes,  it  must  be  hard  on  you. 


DULCY  235 

PATTERSON  [looking  about  and  approaching  GORDON]* 
Ah — if  I  might  ask  a  small  favor? 

GORDON.     Certainly. 

PATTERSON.  I  hope  none  of  your  guests  has  learned  about 
my  cousin's — weakness? 

GORDON.  I  don't  think  so.  [With  a  look  toward  the 
windows.]  I  hope  not. 

PATTERSON.  If  I  may  suggest  it,  it  might  be  better  to 
wait  until  I've  taken  him  home,  in  case  you  wish  to  explain 
to  anyone.  It  will  save  embarrassment.  [VAN  DYCK  comes 
downstairs.] 

GORDON.     I  won't  say  anything. 

PATTERSON.     Thank  you. 

VAN  DYCK  [noticing  GORDON  only].     Good  morning. 

GORDON.  Good  morning.  [He  indicates  PATTERSON.] 
Here's  a — friend  of  yours.  [Exit  GORDON  through  windows.] 

PATTERSON  [turning'].     Hello,  Horace. 

VAN  DYCK.  Blair!  Why,  what  in  the  world  are  you 
doing  here? 

PATTERSON.     Oh,  just  dropped  in  to  say  hello. 

VAN  DYCK.  You  can't  fool  me.  You've  come  to  make  me 
leave — that's  what  you've  done. 

PATTERSON.     Oh,  no — that  is — unless  you  really  want  to. 

VAN  DYCK  [aggrieved].     It's  very — embarrassing. 

PATTERSON  [annoyed].  Well,  if  it's  embarrassing  for  you, 
what  do  you  think  it  is  for  me?  I've  a  law  practice  to  attend 
to.  I'm  getting  a  little  tired  of — these — excursions. 

VAN  DYCK.  Well,  I  wish  you'd  leave  me  alone.  At  least 
half  a  dozen  times  during  the  past  few  years  you've  interrupted 
me  in  business  negotiations  that  were  exceedingly  inter 
esting. 

PATTERSON  [suddenly  suspicious].  Have  you  been — putting 
through — something — here  ? 

VAN  DYCK.  Well,  yes — I've  been  representing  my  Van 
Dyck  interests.  We  had  all  sorts  of  wonderful  things  planned. 
My  share  alone  would  have  been  eight  and  a  half  millions. 
Besides,  we  were  going  to  play  golf. 

PATTERSON.  Horace,  haven't  I  told  you  repeatedly  that  I 
represent  the  Van  Dyck  interests?  Now,  you  must  let  me 
handle  it.  You  come  back  to  town  with  me  and  we'll  talk  it 
over. 


236  DULCY 

VAN  DYCK  [protesting'}.  But  I  can't  leave  now.  If  I 
do— 

PATTERSON.  I'm  sorry,  Horace,  but  you  know  our  agree 
ment.  Unless  you  do  as  I  say,  I'll  never  go  through  with  that 
two  hundred  million  dollar  aeroplane  company  of  ours. 

VAN  DYCK  [appeased  and  smiling'}.  Oh,  all  right.  [Enter 
DULCY.  Coming  face  to  face  with  VAN  DYCK,  she  is  startled 
and  uncertain  as  to  how  to  greet  him.} 

DULCY.  Oh,  good  morning.  [Timorously.}  How  do  you 
— feel  this  morning? 

VAN  DYCK.  Very  melancholy.  [DULCY  sidles  away  from 
him.}  I'm  afraid  I  must  go  back  to  town. 

DULCY.     Ah — !     [The  height  of  sympathy.} 

VAN  DYCK.     You  don't  know  how  I  wish  I  could  stay. 

DULCY.  Ah  .  .  .  !  Well,  that's  too  bad.  Still,  it's  all  for 
the  best.  You — you  must  have  some  breakfast  first. 

VAN  DYCK.     Oh,  thank  you. 

DULCY  [in  a  whisper  to  PATTERSON].  He  can  eat  break 
fast,  can't  he?  [GORDON  comes  back.} 

PATTERSON.     Oh,  yes. 

VAN  DYCK.     I  hope  we're  not  the  last. 

DULCY.  Oh,  that's  all  right.  The  last  shall  be  first  and — 
everything.  [VAN  DYCK  goes.  To  PATTERSON.]  I  had 
some  soft  boiled  eggs  prepared  for  him,  and  some  soft  milk 
toast — all  very  .soft,  you  know.  Is  that  all  right?  [PATTER 
SON,  with  a  nod,  goes  in  for  breakfast.  DULCY  is  about  to 
follow.} 

GORDON  [sharply}.     Dulcy! 

DULCY  [turning  nervously}.     Yes — dear. 

GORDON  [very  seriously}.     Dulcy,  come  here,  please. 

DuLCY  [prattling  on  to  cover  her  nervousness}.  I — I  was 
just  seeing  about  Mr.  Van  Dyck's  breakfast — Mr. — Mr.  Pat 
terson's — I  mean.  He's — he's  all  right,  really.  I  mean,  of 
course,  he  isn't — exactly  all  right,  but  he's — he's  all  right  for — 
for  what  he  is — and — I  mean — everything  could  be  much 
worse — couldn't  it,  darling?  [She  finishes  rather  weakly,  go 
ing  to  GORDON.] 

GORDON.  Dulcy — do  you  realize — exactly  what  has  hap 
pened  ? 

DULCY.  Well,  I — I  don't  know — I  think  so.  Oh,  Gordie, 
I  didn't  mean 


DULCY  237 

GORDON  [simply  and  kindly'].  You  must  listen  quietly,  dear, 
until  I  finish. 

DULCY  [momentarily  subdued].     Yes,  darling. 

GORDON.  The  time  has  come  when — I  must  speak — 
frankly.  [A  pause.']  Do  you  know  what  Mr.  Forbes  is  go 
ing  to  say  to  me  when  he  learns  who  Van  Dyck  really  is? 
[DuLCY  shakes  her  head;  she  cannot  speak  at  the  moment.] 
He  is  going  to  tell  me  that  my  factory  and  my  services  are 
of  no  use  to  him.  Mr.  Forbes  thinks — that  he  has  been  made 
a  fool  of,  and — he's  right.  Our  future  success — depended 
entirely  on  him. 

DULCY.  But — but — we  haven't  really  done  anything  to 
him.  Just  because  we — we  asked  for  more. 

GORDON.     It  wasn't — our  asking  for  more. 

DULCY.  Oh,  you  mean  the  elopement?  [She  considers.] 
He  doesn't  like  pictures. 

GORDON.     That  was  the  crowning  mistake. 

DULCY.  It  was  me  again.  It  was  me  as  usual.  Oh,  dear 
— how  will  it  all  end!  [She  sinks  onto  the  sofa.] 

GORDON  [slowly].  Forbes  will  probably  force  me  out  of 
business.  Then  I'll  have  to  start  in  all  over  again  without — 
[He  glances  around  the  room.]  Without — this. 

DULCY  [forcing  herself  to  say  it].     And  without  me? 

GORDON  [dispassionately'].  Dulcy,  I  love  you.  I  shall  al 
ways  love  you.  I  don't  know  whether  it's  because  you  have 
the  soul  of  a  child,  or  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  you  act  like  one. 
[He  turns  away.]  I  don't  know  what  the  future  is  going  to 
do  to  us.  You  mean  well,  but  you  just  don't  stop  to  think. 

DULCY.  I  guess  I  don't  think — I  just  think  I  think.  [Ris 
ing  and  speaking  bravely. ~\  I'll  let  you  go,  darling — if  you 
want  me  to.  I'm  just — all  wrong.  I'm — a  false  note.  I 
always  wondered  how  I'd  be  able  to  make  a  man  like  you  care 
for  me — it  seems  so  absurd  for  a  man  like  you  ever  to  love — 
a  false  note.  And  now — we're  finding  out — he  can't. 

GORDON  [carried  away  for  a  second].  Dulcy,  we  can't  end 
everything  like  this!  You're  not  a  false  note — you're  a  melody 
— a  whole  tune.  [A  pause.  He  reverts  to  his  previous  mood.] 
But  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 

DULCY  [sadly],     I  don't  think  I  can  reform. 

GORDON.     No — I  suppose  not. 

DULCY    [a  bit   hopefully].     I   could   make   out   a  kind   of 


238  DULCY 

budget  of  things  not  to  do — you  know,  like  the  one  we  did 
for  the  household  expenses. 

GORDON.     I'm  afraid — that  wouldn't  do  much  good. 

DULCY  [realizing  that  it's  old  stuff  but  hopefully  trying  it 
anyhow].  I  could  make  another  promise.  One  that  would 
take  in  everything. 

GORDON.     Oh,  I  know  you'd  try  to  keep  it,  but — 

DULCY  [with  tears  in  her  voice].  Oh,  but  I  would  keep 
this  one!  Dearest,  if  you'll  let  me,  I'll  promise  that  I'll  never 
interfere  with  your  business  affairs  again. 

GORDON.     But  you  practically  promised  that  once,  and — 

DULCY.  I  mean  in  any  way  whatever!  Inviting  people  to 
parties,  and  everything!  I'll — I'll  revolutionize  myself. 

GORDON  [turning  sharply].  Dulcy,  I  don't  want  you  to 
change  yourself  a  bit.  I  love  you  just  as  you  are.  [With 
desperate  earnestness.]  I  simply  want  you  to  let  me  handle 
my  own  affairs.  Promise  me  that  you  won't  even  suggest 
helping  me  in  business. 

DULCY  [hysterically].  All  right,  I'll  promise!  And  I'll 
keep  it!  I  will! 

GORDON  [embracing  her].     I'm  sure  you  will! 

DULCY.  I  will,  I  will!  And  furthermore,  I'll  do  every 
thing  in  my  power  to  repair  the  damage  I've  done. 

GORDON  [thoroughly  frightened].     Repair  it? 

DULCY.  Yes — about  Mr.  Forbes.  I'll  go  to  him  and  tell 
him  how  sorry  I  am,  and  see  if  there  isn't  something  I  can 
do —  [FORBES  comes  striding  in  through  the  windows.] 

FORBES.  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  it  is  extremely  necessary 
that  I  get  back  to  town  immediately.  Can  I  get  a  car  any 
where  in  the  village? 

GORDON.  Oh,  but,  surely — you're  not  going  before  wre  have 
our  little  talk? 

FORBES.     I  regret  that  I  must. 

GORDON  [evidently  conspiring  to  keep  him  there].  But — 
I'm  afraid  you  can't  get  in — this  morning.  There  are  no  cars 
to  be  had  out  there — so,  if  you'll  just  make  yourself  comforta 
ble— 

DULCY  [spilling  the  beans].  Oh,  yes,  he  can  get  a  car, 
darling —  [Starting  off.]  He  can  get  one  right  away.  I'll 
phone  Kelly.  Kelly  always  has  a  car. 

GORDON   [following  her].     But,  Dulcy — 


DULCY  239 

FORBES.    Thank  you  very  much,  Mrs.  Smith. 

GORDON.  But,  Dulcy — Dulcy —  [Turning  back  to 
FORBES  hastily.']  I'll  be  back.  Dulcy!  [He  races  out  after 
her.  FORBES  takes  a  turn  around  the  room,  automatically 
reaching  for  his  cigar  caset  which  he  opens  and  finds  empty. 
Enter  BLAIR  PATTERSON.] 

FORBES.    Why,  Mr.  Patterson — 

PATTERSON.     Oh,  it's — ah — 

FORBES.     Forbes.     C.  Roger  Forbes. 

PATTERSON.     Oh,  of  course.     [He  shakes  his  hand.] 

FORBES  [puzzled  and  suspicious].  I — ah — I  didn't  know 
you  were  a  friend  of  Mr.  Smith's? 

PATTERSON.     Well — ah — no — that  is,  yes — I — 

FORBES.     H'm.     Came  down — this  morning,  did  you? 

PATTERSON.  Ah — yes,  yes.  Just — got  in.  Beautiful  coun 
try. 

FORBES.  Isn't  it?  [A  pause.]  The  Van  Dyck  interests 
seem  to  keep  you  quite  busy. 

PATTERSON.    Ah — yes,  yes. 

FORBES.  I  was  just — wondering  what  had  brought  you, 
and — 

PATTERSON  [in  a  corner}.    Yes. 

FORBES.  H'm.  [Lightly.']  Must  be — something  pretty 
important — for  him  to  send  for  you  at — this  hour? 

PATTERSON.  Well,  ah — just  a  little  matter  of  business, 
which  he  thought — advisable —  [He  finishes  with  a  cough.] 

FORBES.  I  see.  What  I  was  about  to  say  was — of  course, 
I  don't  know  just  what  Mr.  Van  Dyck  is  thinking  of  going 
into,  but — ah — if  I  had  a  client  who  was — thinking  of  going 
into  it,  why,  I'd  look  into  it  pretty  thoroughly  myself.  Now 
I  can  give  you  a  good  deal  of  facts  about —  [Enter  STER 
RETT  and  VAN  DYCK.] 

STERRETT  [as  they  enter}.  Well,  that's  certainly  very  in 
teresting  to  me. 

VAN  DYCK.    Yes,  I — I  hoped  that  it  would  be. 

STERRETT.  Well,  Mr.  Forbes,  if  you  want  me  to  handle 
your  advertising  after  this  you'll  have  to  bring  it  to  a  different 
office. 

PATTERSON  [suddenly  suspicious].    What  was  that? 

STERRETT.  I've  just  fixed  up  a  little  deal  with  Mr.  Van 
Dyck.  I'm  to  head  his  new  advertising  agency! 


240  DULCY 

FORBES.    You  don't  say  so? 

PATTERSON  [with  a  side  glance  at  VAN  DYCK].    Well! 

FORBES.  That's  splendid!  Anyone  who  can  join  hands 
with  Mr.  Van  Dyck  is  a  very  fortunate  person. 

PATTERSON.  Ah — would  you  care  to  finish  your  packing, 
Mr.  Van  Dyck? 

VAN  DYCK.     All  right,  Blair.     In  a  minute. 

PATTERSON  [going  up  to  the  staircase'}.  Well,  whenever 
you're  ready — Schuyler.  [This  informality  of  address  registers 
strongly  with  FORBES.] 

FORBES.  Ah — now  that  we've  met,  Mr.  Van  Dyck,  I  hope 
we  can  see  something  of  each  other  in  town. 

VAN  DYCK.  I  trust  so.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  are 
several  things  I  would  be  interested  in  going  over  with  you. 

FORBES  [eagerly].    That  so?     What  are  they? 

PATTERSON  [warning  I y].  Ah — don't  forget — Schuyler — 
your  packing — 

VAN  DYCK  [airily].     Oh,  that's  all  right,  Blair. 

FORBES.     You  were  saying,  Mr.  Van  Dyck — 

VAN  DYCK.  Well,  it  just  occurred  to  me  that  we  might 
have  interests  which- — ah — 

FORBES.    Yes? 

VAN  DYCK.     Which  we  might  pool  to  advantage. 

FORBES.  Indeed,  yes.  Something  of  that  kind  has  been  in 
my  mind  for  a  long  time.  Of  course  I  hesitated  to  suggest  it 
to  you. 

PATTERSON.     Don't  you  think  that  we'd  better  be — 

STERRETT.  Now,  there's  something  I'd  like  to  ask  you,  Mr. 
Van  Dyck — and  I  hope  you  won't  mind  my — presuming.  Ah 
— do  you — that  is,  what  is  your  attitude — just  at  present — on 
the  market?  Do  you  look  for  further  declines,  or —  [He 
pauses.] 

VAN  DYCK  [importantly].     No,  sir. 

FORBES.    Ah ! 

STERRETT.     That's  very  interesting. 

VAN  DYCK.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  look  for  a  sharp  rise 
throughout  the  list. 

FORBES.     Indeed? 

STERRETT.  What  do  you  base  that  on,  Mr.  Van  Dyck? 
[Quickly.]  If  I  may  ask? 


DULCY  241 

PATTERSON.  I  hardly  think  you  have  time  to  go  into  that 
now,  Schuyler — 

VAN  DYCK.  It'll  just  take  a  second.  [Pompously.']  The 
reason  that  I  look  for  a  rising  market,  Mr.  Forbes — is — 

FORBES.    Yes? 

VAN  DYCK.     Is  that  a  war  with  Spain  is  now  inevitable! 

FORBES.     A  war  with — Spain? 

VAN  DYCK.     Exactly. 

PATTERSON.     Schuyler ! 

STERRETT.    A  war  between — Spain  and — this  country? 

VAN  DYCK.  Oh,  no!  That's  it,  exactly.  Spain  and — 
Abyssinia ! 

FORBES.    What's  that? 

STERRETT.     But  I  don't — 

PATTERSON  [reaching  across  STERRETT  and  leading  VAN 
DYCK  <away].  Come,  come.  I  really  must  get  back  to  town, 
Mr.  Van  Dyck.  There's  a  train  that  goes  almost  immediately. 
[To  VAN  DYCK,  confidentially.']  It's  a  matter  of  two  hun 
dred  millions.  [STERRETT  and  FORBES  exchange  a  glance .] 
Sorry  to  take  Mr.  Van  Dyck  away  from  you,  Mr.  Forbes — 
Mr.  Sterrett — but  you  know  how  it  is.  We'll  see  you  pres 
ently. 

FORBES.     Certainly. 

PATTERSON.  Come  along,  Schuyler.  [He  starts  up  with 
VAN  DYCK.] 

STERRETT  [following'].  Mr.  Patterson,  you  don't  mind  if 
I  go  up — along  with  Mr.  Van  Dyck,  do  you? 

VAN  DYCK  [turning  back  to  him'].  Come  right  along,  Mr. 
Sterrett.  I  haven't  finished  with  you  yet.  [PATTERSON  is 
now  on  the  stairs.  The  other  two  work  their  way  up  the 
stairs  as  they  speak.~\ 

STERRETT.  No,  I  didn't  think  you  had.  Now,  if  that 
April  ist  date  is  O.  K.  with  you — 

VAN  DYCK.  Yes,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  else  you  can  do 
for  me.  I  have  some  copper  interests  out  in  Montana — 
[VAN  DYCK,  STERRETT  and  PATTERSON  go  up  the  stairs. 
FORBES  follows  up  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  looking  after  them. 
Enter  MRS.  FORBES.] 

MRS.  FORBES.     Oh — Charlie — 

FORBES.     Oh,  it's  you. 


242  DULCY 

MRS.  FORBES  [approaching'].  Charlie,  it  wasn't  my  fault — 
Angela,  I  mean.  [ FORBES  listens  in  stony  silence. ,]  Honestly  it 
wasn't,  Charlie.  [She  makes  up  her  mind  to  stretch  the  truth 
just  a  little.]  I  didn't  know  anything  about  it  until  after 
they'd  eloped.  Really  I  didn't! 

FORBES.     Well,  I — I've  no  wish  to  be  unjust,  Eleanor. 

MRS.  FORBES.     Then  you'll — forgive  me? 

FORBES.  You — you're  telling  me  the  truth?  You  didn't 
know  anything  about  the  elopement  until — 

MRS.  FORBES.     Until  after  Mrs.  Smith  told  me. 

FORBES.     That  woman! 

MRS.  FORBES.  Then  you  will — take  me  back?  [FORBES 
looks  at  her,  pinches  her  cheeksj  then  embraces  her  awk 
wardly.] 

FORBES.     Eleanor,  dear — my  little  widgie! 

MRS.  FORBES  [sinking  into  his  embrace].  Oh,  Charlie,  I'm 
so  happy! 

FORBES.  My  dear,  this  has  been  a  most  unfortunate 
visit. 

MRS.  FORBES.    Yes,  dearest. 

FORBES.  But  it  has  done — one  thing  for  me.  I  didn't 
know  until  I  saw  you  with  Mr.  Van  Dyck  how  much  I  really 
cared  for  you. 

MRS.  FORBES.  Oh,  Charlie — do  you  honestly?  Say  it 
again ! 

FORBES.     I  was  actually — jealous. 

MRS.  FORBES  [embracing  him].  Charlie — how  wonderful! 
I'll  never  talk  to  Mr.  Van  Dyck  again,  and  I'll  even  give  up 
the  Smiths  if  you  insist. 

FORBES  [quickly].  Oh,  no,  no,  no.  You  must  stay  friendly 
with  the  Smiths  no  matter  what  happens.  Smith's  factory 
equipment  couldn't  be  duplicated  right  now  for  any  amount. 
I've  got  to  have  it. 

MRS.  FORBES.     But,  Charlie — 

FORBES.     Now  don't  go  and  tell  him. 

MRS.  FORBES.     Oh,  I  wouldn't. 

FORBES.     I  just  wanted  to  be  sure.     [Enter  DULCY.] 

DULCY.  Oh,  Mr.  Forbes,  they  haven't  any  automobiles — 
just  now.  They  said — maybe  they'd  have  one  later. 

FORBES.     To-morrow,  perhaps? 

DULCY.     Oh,    Mr.    Forbes — I'm   sorry —      [She   pauses  a 


DULCY  243 

second.]  Sorry  about — the  elopement,  I  mean —  [There  is 
no  response  from  FORBES.]  And  everything. 

FORBES  [annoyed].  It's  quite  all  right,  Mrs.  Smith — 
quite  all  right. 

DULCY.  And  I'm  sorry  about  the  business  deal,  too.  But 
it's  going  to  come  out  all  right. 

FORBES.     What's  that? 

DULCY.  I  say  the  business  deal  between  you  and  Gordie 
is  going  to  come  out  all  right. 

FORBES.     Oh,  is  it? 

DULCY.  Yes.  Gordie  will  go  in  with  you  after  all.  Be 
cause  Mr.  Van  Dyck  isn't  Mr.  Van  Dyck  at  all. 

MRS.  FORBES.    What? 

FORBES.     What's  that? 

DULCY.  No — he  has  something  wrong  up  here.  [She  taps 
her  head.]  He  only  thinks  he's  a  millionaire. 

MRS.  FORBES.     Good  heavens! 

FORBES  [keeping  calm].  Oh — so  Mr.  Van  Dyck  is — not 
Mr.  Van  Dyck! 

DULCY.     No. 

FORBES.     I  see. 

DULCY  [after  a  pause].  So  everything's  all  right  now, 
isn't  it? 

FORBES.     Oh,  yes.     Splendid! 

DULCY.  And  it's  all  right  between  you  and  Mrs.  Forbes, 
too?  [MRS.  FORBES  smilingly  puts  her  arm  around  him.  He 
smiles  at  her.  DULCY  gurgles  with  joy.]  Ah — !  H'm — ! 
It  was  sweet  of  you  to  forgive  her  for  helping  with  the  elope 
ment. 

MRS.  FORBES  [drawing  back  with  an  involuntary  exclama 
tion].  Oh! 

FORBES.  For — helping  with  the  elopement!  [To  his 
wife.]  Then  you — did  know  about  it?  You  helped, f  [He 
turns  to  DULCY,  who  has  crept  a  few  steps  away,  as  if  to 
escape.]  Did  she?  [Enter  GORDON.  DULCY  sees  escape  is 
hopeless^] 

DULCY.     I — I — 

FORBES  [to  MRS.  FORBES].     And  you  told  me  you  didn't! 

MRS.  FORBES  [sobbing].  Oh,  Charlie,  Charlie — I  didn't 
very  much!  And  I  was  sorry  I  did,  right  away.  [She  tries 
to  embrace  him;  he  puts  her  off.] 


244  DULCY 

FORBES.     I  don't  care  to  hear  anything  about  it! 

MRS.  FORBES.     Oh,  but,  Charlie — 

DULCY.     Ah!     Ah!     [She  crosses  to  her.]     There!  there! 

MRS.  FORBES.     I  feel  faint. 

DULCY.  She  feels  faint!  Come  out  into  the  garden  and 
get  some  fresh  air.  [Leading  her  into  the  windows  and  out.] 
Breathe  deeply,  dear.  Ten  times.  One — two — three — 
[They  are  out  of  sight  and  hearing] 

GORDON.  I'm  sorry.  Sorrier  than  I  can  tell  you — about 
all  of  it. 

FORBES  [after  a  pause'].  Oh,  Mr.  Smith — I've  just  been 
hearing  something  from  Mrs.  Smith  about  Mr.  Van  Dyck. 

GORDON  [scared].     You — have? 

FORBES.     Yes. 

GORDON  [he  grits  his  teeth].  Well,  then  of  course  you 
know  that — 

FORBES.  Yes,  I  know.  [A  pause].  But  it  won't  work, 
Mr.  Smith. 

GORDON.    What's  that? 

FORBES.  I'll  admit  that  Mrs.  Smith  is  a  clever  woman — 
a  very  clever  woman.  [GORDON  looks  at  him  wonderingly.] 
But  it  won't  work.  [A  pause.]  Van  Dyck  not  Van  Dyck. 
Hah!  [GORDON  laughs  nervously.]  I  might  have  believed 
it — if  I  hadn't  happened  to  meet  Blair  Patterson  down  here. 
No,  Mr.  Smith!  I  know  Patterson,  and  I  know  that  he 
represents  the  Van  Dyck  interests.  A  man  like  Patterson 
doesn't  suddenly  pop  up  in  Westchester  to  talk  business  with  a 
man  with  hallucinations! 

GORDON  [not  knowing  just  what  to  do].  Oh!  Well,  of 
course  you  know — 

FORBES.  You  bet  I  do!  I  saw  it  all!  You  began  to  be 
sorry  you'd  told  me  about  the  Van  Dyck  merger,  and  wanted 
to  throw  me  off  the  trail — eh?  Well,  you  can't  do  it.  I 
know  what's  in  the  wind,  and  I'm  going  to  hold  you  to  your 
agreement. 

GORDON.     Agreement  ? 

FORBES.  Well,  it  was  a  verbal  agreement.  As  a  gentle 
man  you  agreed  to  come  in  with  me  and  take  sixteen  and  two- 
thirds  per  cent,  and  you've  got  to  do  it. 

GORDON  [having  difficulty  in  not  betraying  himself].  But, 
Mr.  Forbes — 


DULCY  245 

FORBES.  YouVe  not  signed  anything  with  Van  Dyck  yet 
and  it  was  just  as  good  as  settled  with  me.  Now,  if  you 
don't —  [ANGELA  bursts  through  the  windows — still  in  her 
evening  dress.  MRS.  FORBES  and  DULCY  follow  her.} 

ANGELA.     Father ! 

DULCY.     Well,  here  she  is! 

FORBES.    Angela ! 

MRS.  FORBES  [quaveringly,  her  hands  on  ANGELA'S  arms}. 
Angela,  oh,  Angela ! 

ANGELA.     Oh,  mother — father! 

DULCY  [expectantly,  as  though  awaiting  a  speech  of  for- 
giveness  from  FORBES].  Well — ? 

FORBES  [as  all  eyes  go  towards  him — a  short  pause].  Are 
you — married  ? 

ANGELA.     Yes,  father. 

MRS.  FORBES.  Oh,  she's  married!  [She  takes  ANGELA 
into  her  arms.] 

DULCY.     She's  married ! 

FORBES.  Well — where  is  your  husband?  [ANGELA  looks 
up  at  him,  then  buries  her  face  in  her  mother's  shoulder.} 
Answer  me,  Angela!  [Enter  BILL.  He  still  wears  his  dinner 
clothes.} 

BILL  [quietly}.     Good  morning,  everybody. 

GORDON   [casually}.     Hello,  Bill. 

DULCY  [carelessly].     Oh,  hello,  Willie. 

FORBES.     Where  is  Leach? 

ANGELA  [with  a  half  smile}.     I  don't  know,  father. 

FORBES.  You — don't  know?  [To  BILL.]  Well,  perhaps 
you  can  tell  us! 

BILL  [shaking  his  head}.     I'm  sorry. 

FORBES.     Didn't  you  help  to  arrange  this  wedding? 

BILL.     Why — yes. 

FORBES.     Well,  don't  you  know  where  the  groom  is? 

BILL.     Sure — I'm  the  groom. 

FORBES   [staggering].     You're — wh-wh-what's  that? 

DULCY.     Gr-gr-groom — Willie! 

GORDON.     What  ? 

MRS.  FORBES.  Why — why — Angela —  [They  all  come 
together — there  is  a  burst  of  excitement.  MRS.  FORBES  em 
braces  ANGELA  again,  DULCY  embraces  WILLIE.  FORBES  and 
GORDON  exchange  looks.  Slowly  the  excitement  dies  down.} 


246  DULCY 

DULCY.  Well — well,  tell  us  about  it!  Good  heavens! 
Willie!  Just  think! 

ANGELA  [breaking  from  her  mother's  embrace].  It  was 
just  the  most  romantic  thing  that  ever  happened  in  the  world ! 
William — William  just  kidnapped  me,  that's  all!  Oh,  Wil 
liam!  [She  goes  into  his  arms.  DULCY  laughs  ecstatically.] 

FORBES  [to  BILL].     Are  you  a — genius? 

BILL.     I  should  say  not.     [They  shake  hands] 

DULCY  [to  FORBES].     He's  a  broker!     Isn't  it  wonderful? 

MRS.  FORBES.     Oh,  Charlie! 

GORDON.    Well,  what  about  Leach — where  is  he? 

BILL.     I  don't  know. 

DULCY.     Don't  know? 

BILL.  We  started  from  here  together  all  right  last  night — >. 
but — ah — down  the  road  a  piece  I  suddenly  thought  my  tail- 
light  was  out.  Mr.  Leach  was  kind  enough  to  get  out  and 
see  that  everything  was  all  right;  suddenly  the  darned  thing 
started.  I  tossed  his  suit-case  out  to  him — I  don't  think  you'll 
ever  see  him  again. 

FORBES  [after  a  laugh — slapping  BILL'S  back].  You're 
pretty  damn  clever. 

DULCY.     I  introduced  them! 

FORBES  [to  DULCY].  Oh,  so  this  was  what  you  were  work 
ing  for,  underneath  that  Leach  business? 

DULCY  [suddenly  seeing  a  chance  to  claim  the  credit]. 
Yes.  [She  meets  BILL'S  eye.]  And  no —  [She  evades  the 
issue.]  You  don't  understand  women  very  well,  Mr.  Forbes. 
[Enter  HENRY  with  the  morning  papers] 

GORDON  [taken  off  his  feet]     Henry! 

HENRY  [as  though  it  were  all  part  of  his  duties].  Good 
morning,  sir. 

DULCY  [to  GORDON-].     Aren't  you  glad  he's  back? 

GORDON.     But — but — what's  this  mean? 

DULCY.  Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Henry  had  to  go  to 
town  last  night —  [She  lowers  her  voice.]  You  know — to 
report  to  the  Probation  Officer.  Every  week. 

GORDON.     But — but — the  necklace? 

FORBES.     Yes,  the  necklace. 

DULCY.  Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that,  too.  Henry  found 
it  last  night  and  took  it  for  safe-keeping.  He  gave  it  to  me 
back  this  morning. 


DULCY  247 

GORDON.     He  did? 

HENRY.  Yes,  sir,  I  found  it  lying  about,  so  I  thought  I'd 
better  take  charge  of  it,  with  so  many  people  in  the  house. 
[He  departs.] 

DULCY  [takes  her  place  between  BILL  and  ANGELA,  an 
arm  around  each].  It's  upstairs  for  you,  Angie,  dear.  Think 
of  Angie  being  a  married  woman,  and  Willie  a  married  man! 
Now,  Mr.  Forbes,  you  know  sixteen  and  two-thirds  per  cent 
isn't  very  much — for  a  relation,  a  brother-in-law. 

FORBES.  Well,  I  wasn't  very  generous  about  that  deal  of 
ours,  or  very  just.  Smith — 

GORDON.    Yes,  sir. 

FORBES.  What  do  you  say  to  coming  in  with  me  for 
twenty  per  cent? 

DULCY.     Twenty! 

FORBES  [anticipating  further  objections].  Well,  then, 
twenty-five. 

DULCY.     Twenty-five ! 

GORDON.     Dulcinea,  that  satisfies  me! 

DULCY.  Does  it?  Well,  if  it  satisfies  Gordon —  [She 
turns  to  him.]  I  didn't  mean  to  interfere,  dear.  I  never  will 
again.  You  can  rely  on  me.  A  burnt  child  dreads  the  fire. 
Once  bitten —  [GORDON  is  embracing  her  and  stops  her  with 
a  kiss,  as 


[THE  CURTAIN  FALLS.] 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS* 

By 
BOOTH  TARKINGTON 


*  Copyright,  1921,  by  Booth  Tarkington. 

All  acting  and  motion  picture  rights  to  The  Intimate  Strangers  are 
controlled  by  A.  L.  Erlanger,  New  Amsterdam  Theatre  Building,  New 
York.  It  may  not  be  acted,  either  by  professional  or  amateur  com 
panies,  without  permission  and  the  payment  of  royalty. 


Dramatic  reviewing  in  America  is  usually  supposed  by  his 
torians  of  American  literature  to  have  begun  with  Pierre 
Irving  and  a  group  of  his  young  friends  in  the  early  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century  in  New  York.  Since  those  days  there  has 
been  a  succession  of  intelligent  and  independent  play  critics. 
In  the  weekly  and  in  the  monthly  journals,  some  of  the  promi 
nent  names  have  been  Laurence  Hutton,  William  Winter, 
H.  A.  Clapp,  John  Coibin,  Norman  Hapgood,  Clayton 
Hamilton,  Walter  Pritchard  Eaton,  Ludwig  Lewisohn,  and 
Stark  Young.  At  the  present  moment  in  New  York  J. 
Ranken  Towse  is  writing  dramatic  criticisms  for  The  New 
'York  Evening  Post.  Alexander  Woolcott,  following  the  prac 
tice  of  the  great  French  critic,  Francisque  Sarcey,  adds  to  the 
tale  of  his  day-to-day  reactions  in  The  New  York  Times  a 
thoughtful  essay  on  the  current  theatre  which  appears  every 
Sunday  under  the  heading  "  Second  Thoughts  on  First  Nights." 
Kenneth  Macgowan  is  the  dramatic  critic  of  The  Globe  and  a 
regular  contributor  to  Vanity  Fair  on  subjects  connected  with 
the  drama.  On  The  Sun  the  dramatic  reviewer  is  Stephen 
Rathbun,  on  The  New  York  Herald,  Lawrence  Reamer,  on 
The  New  York  Mail,  Burns  Mantle,  and  on  the  Evening  Tele 
gram,  Robert  Gilbert  Welsh.  Hey  wood  Broun  has  recently 
migrated  from  The  Tribune  to  The  World,  and  his  place  on 
The  Tribune  has  been  taken  by  Percy  Hammond,  who  made 
his  first  success  as  a  play  reviewer  in  Chicago. 

It  is  Percy  Hammond's  criticism  of  Booth  Tarkington's x 
play  that  has  been  chosen  as  a  sympathetic  introduction  to  The 
Intimate  Strangers: 

"  For  a  while,  in  the  course  of  The  Intimate  Strangers,  you  share 
with  middle-aged  Mr.  Ames  (Alfred  Lunt)  the  perplexities  of 
sex  in  which  he  finds  himself  involved  by  Mr.  Tarkington.  You 
know,  as  well  as  he  does,  that  the  mannerly  Aunt  Isabel  (Miss  Billie 
Burke)  is  a  woman  far  superior  to  her  rambunctious  young  niece  (Miss 
Frances  Howard).  Yet,  though  you  are  in  love  with  the  older  lady 

1  See  for  biographical  sketch  the  same  editor's  One-Act  Plays  by 
Modern  Authors,  New  York,  1921,  p.  3. 

251 


252  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

(having  just  met  her  a  few  hours  before)  you  feel  an  urge  toward 
the  vociferous  woman-child  as  she  plies  you  with  the  blunt  seductions 
of  her  type.  Though  you  are  censorious  of  her  perturbing  demerits, 
you  wish,  when  she  is  off  the  scene,  that  she  would  hurry  back  again. 
She  is  the  kind  of  horsey  nineteen-year-old  that  you  think  you  abhor, 
but  still,  in  the  lingo  of  the  maiden  herself,  she  *  intrigues '  you. 
.  .  .  You  discover,  to  your  distress,  that  her  bad  habits  are  as  inter 
esting  as  are  the  good  ones  of  her  attractive  aunt,  to  whom  you 
are  almost  engaged. 

This,  of  course,  does  not  disparage  the  delightful  impersonation  by 
Miss  Burke  of  the  pretty  and  cunning  spinster.  That  effort  is  a  fine 
embodiment  of  adult  charm,  humor  and  beauty,  helped  or  hindered, 
as  you  may  be  inclined  to  believe,  by  the  player's  judicious  manner 
isms.  You  divide  your  allegiance  simply  because  you  are  weak  and  a 
man.  You  are  indulging  a  man's  prerogative  for  occasional  bad  taste 
in  women.  Mr.  Tarkington  ascribes  this  clumsy  male  attitude  to  the  call 
of  youth — the  lure  of  *  breath  all  incense  and  cheek  all  bloom,'  to  the 
heedless  laughter  of  the  nineteen-year-old  who  thinks  she  is  eternity's 
pal  and  that  age  exists  only  for  others.  She  believes  that  maturity  is 
antique  and  funny.  '  Why  is  Aunt  Isabel  ashamed  of  how  old  she 
is  ?  '  this  flapper  shouts.  '  I'm  nineteen ! '  It  might  be  interesting  for 
you  to  analyze,  if  you  are  over  thirty,  your  emotions  in  the  matter, 
in  the  event  that  you  have  not  already  done  so. 

All  is  propitious  in  the  romance  of  Mr.  Ames  and  Aunt  Isabel  until 
the  gusty  advent  of  the  virgin  msenad.  Having  been  castaways  for 
ten  hours  in  a  desolate  railway  station  in  upper  New  York  State, 
they  quarrel  over  food  and  fall  in  love.  Incidental  to  his  soft 
avowals  Mr.  Ames  announces  his  displeasure  with  the  new  genera 
tion  of  women.  He  has  remained  a  bachelor  because  of  his  loathing 
for  the  loud,  slangy,  cigarette-smoking,  gin-drinking,  breeches-wear 
ing  ingenue  of  the  day.  He  likes  quiet  women  of  gentle  breeding, 
like  Aunt  Isabel,  and  he  assures  her  that  he  will  not  care  for  her 
obstreperous  kinswoman.  In  one  of  the  most  sweetly  sophisticated 
interludes  of  Mr.  Tarkington's  achievements  as  a  playwright,  Mr. 
Ames  and  Aunt  Isabel  go  to  sleep  on  two  benches  in  the  desolate 
depot,  almost  engaged  to  be  married.  At  least,  they  are  tenderly 
solicitous  about  each  other's  comfort;  and  after  sentimental  negotia 
tions  they  decide  that  both  may  be  allowed  to  say  '  Good  night .  .  . 
dear! ' 

But  arriving  with  the  morning  is  the  brisk  flapper  in  breeches  and 
bobbed  hair,  affronting  the  rural  silences  with  ribald  jocularities  about 
the  compromising  position  in  which  she  finds  her  decorous  aunt.  She 
thinks  it  might  be  subject  to  interpretations  .  .  .  observing,  mean 
time,  that,  by  j,olly,  he  [Mr.  Ames]  isn't  bad  looking.  '  Old,' 
of  course,  but  still  a  prospect.  '  Ab-so-lutely!  *  Dazed  by  her  fasci 
nations,  he  slips  into  her  spell,  and  it  is  he  who  sits  beside  her  as  she 
drives  the  forty  miles  to  the  home  of  her  and  her  aunt. 

There  it  is  that  the  two  ladies  strive  each  to  win  the  visitor's 
admiration,  the  breezy  virgin  with  the  sex's  most  ancient  tricks,  the 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  253 

sedate  spinster  with  its  most  modern  ones.  The  niece  talks  to  him 
with  the  obviously  dishonest  candors  of  her  kind,  telling  him  that  he 
sure  is  a  '  fast  worker '  and  operating  the  eyes  and  the  arms  in  the 
platitudinous  gestures  of  the  baby-wanton.  Her  favorite  device  is  the 
prehistoric  expedient  of  causing  him  every  now  and  then  to  fasten  or 
unfasten  her  slippers.  All  of  which  causes  her  youthful  suitor  (Mr. 
Glenn  Hunter)  to  brood  in  bitter  disapprobation  and  to  make  wise 
and  cutting  comment.  Mr.  Tarkington  was  never  more  humorous 
than  he  is  in  this  character,  and  neither  was  Mr.  Hunter. 

Aunt  Isabel,  however,  performs  the  oldest  wiles  in  the  newest  ways. 
Knowing  that  Mr.  Ames  suspects  her  to  be  aged,  because  she  is  the 
great-aunt  of  the  terrible  infant,  she  feigns  years  and  their  infirmities^ 
planning  at  the  end  to  surprise  him  with  her  comparative  youth. 
She  acquires  rheumatism,  wears  a  shawl  and  woolen  slippers,  and 
talks  to  him  (smiling  to  herself)  of  the  World's  Fair  and  President 
Harrison.  When  finally,  after  winning  him,  she  offers  him  the  family 
Bible  so  that  he  may  calculate  her  age  therefrom,  he  foregoes  the 
information,  and  takes  her  in  his  arms. 

Miss  Burke' s  performance  of  Aunt  Isabel  is,  to  my  mind,  rather  a 
noteworthy  endeavor  in  comedy,  embracing,  as  it  does,  in  skillful 
fashion,  the  varying  moods  of  the  character — its  twinkling  pathos,  its 
sagacities,  its  mockery  and  banter.  It  causes  one  to  wonder  why,  as 
it  is  suspected,  her  reputation  as  a  comedienne  is  less  than  her  achieve 
ments  entitle  it  to  be.  I  recall  few  if  any  ill  deeds  in  her  stage 
career,  and  I  remember  one  impersonation  that  was  a  masterpiece — 
that  of  Pinero's  Mind-the-Paint  Girl.  The  Intimate  Strangers,  by 
the  way,  was  written  by  Mr.  Tarkington  for  Miss  Maude  Adams 
who,  wisely,  I  think,  refrained  from  playing  it."  * 

The  Intimate  Strangers  is  one  of  a  lengthening  list  of  Mr. 
Tarkington's  plays.  With  Harry  Leon  Wilson  he  wrote  The 
Man  from  Home  (1907),  Cameo  Kirby  (1908),  Foreign  Ex 
change  ( 1909),  //  /  Had  Money,  subsequently  known  as  Mrs. 
Jim,  and  Getting  a  Polish  (1909),  Your  Humble  Servant 
(1909),  Springtime  (1909),  Up  from  Nowhere  (1919),  and 
The  Gibson  Upright  (1919).  In  1917,  Mr.  Tarkington  col 
laborated  with  Julian  Street  in  The  Country  Cousin.  He 
had  Evelyn  Greenleaf  Sutherland  as  his  collaborator  in  the 
dramatization  of  his  Monsieur  Beaucaire,  known  as  Beaucaire 
(1901),  in  which  Richard  Mansfield  is  so  happily  remembered. 

Other  plays  by  Mr.  Tarkington  include  A  Man  on 
Horseback  (1912),  Beauty  and  the  Jacobin  (1912), 
Mister  Antonio  (1916),  in  which  Otis  Skinner  starred, 
Clarence  (1919),  Poldekin  (1920),  in  which  George  Arliss 
took  the  principal  role,  and  The  Wren  (1921).  At  least  three 


Printed  by  courteous  permission  of  Percy  Hammond, 


254  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

of  Mr.  Tarkington's  stories  have  been  dramatized  by  play 
wrights  other  than  himself.  The  Man  from  Indiana,  Seven 
teen,  and  Penrod  have  all  made  stage  appearances. 

The  Intimate  Strangers  Is  Mr.  Tarkington's  contribution  to 
the  controversy  which  is  now  being  waged  on  the  subject  of 
the  manners  and  morals  of  the  younger  generation;  not  that 
The  Intimate  Strangers  is  a  polemic — far  from  it.  It  is  in 
finitely  less  doctrinaire  in  its  attitude  than  Rachel  Crothers's 
Nice  People,  produced  also  in  the  year  1921.  Miss  Crothers 
drew  a  lurid  picture  of  the  invasion  of  the  social  sanctities  by 
the  youths  and  maidens  of  to-day. 

Booth  Tarkington  gets  his  verdict  by  means  of  the  most 
delicate  of  satirical  touches.  His  rapier  wit  does  not  hurt,  for 
the  button  is  on  the  foil.  It  is  doubtful,  indeed,  whether  since 
the  days  of  Mark  Twain  there  has  arisen  among  our  American 
writers  of  the  first  rank  a  man  who  so  thoroughly  understands 
the  way  young  people  reason  and  feel  as  Booth  Tarkington. 
He  knows  the  tastes  of  youth,  the  heart  of  youth,  and  the 
soul  of  youth;  and  so  as  a  novelist  and  as  a  playwright,  he  is 
the  possessor  of  a  golden  gift. 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

CHARACTERS 
(In  the  order  of  their  appearance) 


THE  STATION-MASTER.-* 

WILLIAM  AMES.  ^ 

ISABEL  STUART.  • 

FLORENCE. 

JOHNNIE 

HENRY. 

AUNT  ELLEN. 

MATTIE. 


Produced  by  Erlanger,  Dillingham,  and  Ziegfeld  at  the  New 
National  Theatre,  Washington,  D.  C.,  October  31,  1921,  with 
the  following  cast: 

THE  STATION-MASTER Charles  Abbe 

AMES Alfred  Lunt 

ISABEL  Miss  Burke 

FLORENCE  Frances  Howard 

JOHNNIE  WHITE Glenn  Hunter 

HENRY  Frank  J.  Kirk 

AUNT  ELLEN .Elizabeth  Patterson 

MATTIE .  .Clare  Weldon 


SYNOPSIS  OF  SCENES 
ACT  I 

A  railway  station.    A  night  in  April.    During  Act  I  the  cur 
tain  is  lowered  to  denote  a  lapse  of  a  few  hours. 

ACT  II 

The  living-room  at  ISABEL'S.     The  next  morning. 

ACT  III 
The  same.     That  evening. 


ACT  I 

SCENE 

The  rise  of  the  curtain  discloses  a  darkness  complete  except  for 
an  oblong  of  faintly  luminous  blue;  this  is  a  large  window; 
and  one  or  two  stars  are  seen  through  the  upper  panes. 
After  a  moment  a  door  up  right  is  opened  and  a  man 
enters  carrying  a  lantern.  He  pushes  a  switch  button 
near  the  door  and  two  bulbs,  shaded  by  green  painted  tin, 
come  to  life,  right  center,  two  other  bulbs,  left  center,  take 
on  similar  life  simultaneously.  These  lights  hang  by  wires 
from  the  ceiling. 

The  interior  revealed  is  that  of  a  small  railway  station,  a 
tr  way  station "  at  <an  obscure  junction  in  the  country. 
The  walls  are  wainscoted  in  wood  to  a  height  of  four 
feet;  above  that  is  plaster  painted  a  tan  brown.  In  the 
right  wall  (half  way  up)  is  the  ticket  window,  with  a 
little  shelf;  the  up-and-down  sliding  inner  panel  of  the 
window  closed.  Up  to  this,  in  right  wall,  is  a  door.  Iw 
the  back  wall  up  right  is  another  door,  that  which  has 
admitted  the  man  with  the  lantern.  Center  in  the  rear 
wall  is  the  window.  There  is  a  stove,  left,  with  a 
pipe  running  to  the  left  wall.  The  only  decorations  are 
some  printed  posters  giving  notice  of  changes  in  train 
schedules,  a  Navy  Recruiting  poster,  a  ff  warning "  con 
cerning  forest  fires,  a  penny-in-the-slot  weighing  machine 
against  the  rear  wall,  and  ff  No  Smoking/'  There  is  a 
clock  on  right  wall;  it  has  stopped  at  seventeen  minutes 
after  six.  The  furniture  consists  of  four  or  five  wooden 
benches,  with  iron  legs,  the  feet  screwed  to  the  floor; 
these  benches  are  set  in  rigid  rows,  facing  front;  one 
straight  behind  the  other.  Upon  the  front  one  is  seen  a 
knowing,  small  lunch  basket,  closed  but  not  strapped,  and  a 
very  small  thermos  bottle.  Several  traveling  bags,  a  couple 
of  guns  in  cases  and  a  trout-fishing  outfit  are  there  also. 
258 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  259 

The  man  with  the  lantern  is  the  station-master,  ticket-agent, 
telegraph  operator,  baggage-man,  and  janitor;  but  he  wears 
no  uniform  except  a  cap.  He  is  elderly  and  smooth-shaven; 
his  clothes  are  elderly,  too;  though  not  shabby.  A  dark 
old  overcoat  with  the  collar  turned  up;  his  rubber  boots 
are  heavy  with  mudded  clay,  and  his  trousers  are  tucked 
into  the  bottoms  of  them. 

He  goes  casually  near  the  clock;  looks  at  it;  grunts  thought 
fully;  goes  out  right,  returns  with  a  plain,  wooden^-seated 
chair,  once  painted  yellow;  places  it  under  the  clock.  He 
moves  the  hands  around  to  ten-twenty-four,  consulting  his 
watch  as  he  does  so.  Then  he  winds  the  clock. 

TAs  the  winding  begins,  there  is  the  sound  of  an  annoyed  yawn 
from  the  apparently  empty  benches.  A  man  has  been  lying 
at  full  length  on  the  bench  second  from  front,  and  until 
now,  as  he  slowly  (f  sits  up,"  has  been  invisible. 

He  is  "  somewhere  in  the  early  forties  " — but  not  yet  re  well- 
preserved  "  looking.  People  of  sixty  would  speak  of  him  as 
"  a  young  man  "  ;  people  of  sixteen  would  of  course  think 
him  of  an  advanced  age.  He  is  urban,  intelligent  look 
ing — a  "man  of  the  world";  very  "attractive"  His 
clothes  are  of  an  imported  texture,  pleasant  for  travel,  and 
he  has  on  a  soft  hat  and  a  light-weight  overcoat. 

The  STATION-MASTER,  having  wound  the  clock,  looks  at  him. 

STATION-MASTER  [casually].  Been  asleep,  I  expect.  [Gets 
down  from  chair.] 

AMES  [passing  a  gloved  hand  over  his  eyes].  I  have  not. 
[He  looks  at  the  STATION-MASTER  drowsily]  You  aren't  the 
same  one,  are  you.  [He  states  this  as  an  interesting  dis 
covery;  it  is  not  a  question] 

STATION-MASTER.     I'm  not  the  same  one  what? 

AMES.  You  aren't  the  same  Station-Master  that  was  here 
this  afternoon. 

STATION-MASTER.  He  ain't  no  Station-Master;  he's  my 
brother-in-law.  [Starts  with  chair] 

AMES.    Oh! 

STATION-MASTER.  He  jes'  spelled  me  to-day;  I  was 
teamin'. 

AMES.     I  thought  he  seemed  to  be  an  amateur. 

STATION-MASTER  [moving  right  with  the  chair  to  return  it 


260  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

to  the  room  off  right'].  How?  [He  means  "What  did  you 
say?"] 

AMES.  He  seemed  bashful.  About  giving  any  information, 
I  mean. 

STATION-MASTER.  Information?  He  ain't  got  no  infama- 
tion  to  give.  Never  did  have. 

AMES.  He  struck  me  in  that  light — particularly  about 
trains. 

STATION-MASTER.  Well,  right  to-night,  I  ain't  much  bet 
ter,  myself.  The  wires  are  all  down  after  them  storms;  the 
bridge  at  Millersville  washed  out  on  one  road  and  they  was 
a  big  freight  smash  on  the  other  one.  My  brother-in-law  says 
he  told  you  that  much. 

AMES  [gloomily].     Yes;  he  did  tell  me  that  much. 

STATION-MASTER.  Well,  the  Lord  A'Mighty  couldn't  tell 
you  no  more  till  them  wires  start  workin'  again.  [He  moves 
to  go  off  right  with  the  chair,  then  turns  back.]  Where'd  you 
say  you  was  aimin'  to  git  to? 

AMES.  Well,  New  York — eventually!  [Plaintively.]  I 
have  a  place  there  with  a  bed  in  it — and  food. 

STATION-MASTER  [reflectively'].  New  York.  You  got  to 
git  from  here  down  to  Uticky  first — then  change  for  Albany. 

AMES  [drearily].  Yes,  I  know,  I  know.  I  made  a  mistake 
in  coming  round  by  this  junction  ...  I  ought  to  have  walked. 

STATION-MASTER  [with  a  short  laugh].  I  reckon!  You'd 
a-got  there  pretty  near  as  soon,  mebbe.  These  here  hurry- 
canes  [he  means  hurricanes']  got  train  service  in  this  whole  sec 
tion  jest  about  disorganized.  They  say  it's  sun-spots — /  dunno 
if  'tis  or  not,  though.  [Exits  right  with  his  chair.  AMES  rises 
and  goes  to  the  window,  he  looks  out  toward  off  left.  After 
a  moment  he  goes  to  the  door  up  right,  opens  it.  Steps  just 
outside  the  door,  but  remains  in  view.  Then  speaks  to  some- 
one  invisible  and  apparently  at  a  little  distance  off  left.] 

AMES  [hesitating].  Ah — don't  you  think  this  is  pretty  fool 
ish?  [He  waits  a  moment  for  an  answer.  None  is  heard;  he 
speaks  louder.]  I  say,  I  think  this  is — ah — don't  you  think, 
yourself,  this  is  pretty  foolish?  Ah — I'm  sure  you  can  hear  me, 
you  know!  [He  waits  again]  Ah —  [He  seems  about  to 
address  further  remarks  to  the  invisible  person;  but  decides  not 
to  do  so,  and  with  a  somewhat  baffled  and  puzzled  air,  comes 
in,  closes  the  door,  sits  on  first  bench,  murmuring  rather 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  261 

crossly:"]  Well,  all  right!  [Moves  lunch  basket  a  little  center 
of  bench.  The  STATION-MASTER  returns  from  the  room  off 
right.  He  speaks  as  he  enters.'] 

STATION-MASTER.  Nary  a  single  click  from  my  telegraph 
instament.  [He  refers  to  room  off  right,  then  he  comes  over 
and  looks  at  the  luggage  on  the  front  bench.}  See  you  been 
gunnun.  [He  means  gunning.'] 

AMES.     What? 

STATION-MASTER.  See  you  been  fishun  and  gunnun  up  in 
the  woods. 

AMES.  Yes,  I  have  been  up  at  a  lodge  in  the  woods,  that's 
how  I  happen  to  be  here; — getting  out  of  the  woods. 

STATION-MASTER  [examining  the  guns}.     Have  any  luck? 

AMES  [abysmal}.     No. 

STATION-MASTER.  If  you'd  a-shot  anything  or  caught  any 
fish  you'd  a-done  well  by  yourself  to  bring  it  along;  you  c'd 
a-built  a  fire  and  cooked  it,  anyways. 

AMES  [roused  to  earnestness}.  See  here;  your  brother-in- 
law  told  me  there  was  absolutely  no  food  in  this  neighborhood. 

STATION-MASTER.     He  was  right.     They  ain't. 

AMES.  But,  my  Lord,  the  people  in  this  neighborhood  have 
to  live  on  something! 

STATION-MASTER.  Ain't  no  people  in  this  neighborhood 
'cept  me  and  my  brother-in-law's  fam'lies. 

AMES.  Well,  even  you  and  your  brother-in-law  have  to  eatt 
don't  you? 

STATION-MASTER.  My  hens  ain't  layin'.  [Sits  on  front 
bench,  center.}  We  got  jest  three  eggs  in  two  days  from  seven 
teen  hens. 

AMES  [pessimistically}.     I  suppose  you  used  all  three  eggs. 

STATION-MASTER  [with  a  dry  laugh}.  I  s'pose  we  did, 
among  seven  childern.  We  had  nine  potatoes  left  and  about 
four  slices  o'  bacon.  That's  all  we  had  fer  supper,  and  we 
won't  have  no  breakfast  at  all  unless  the  north-bound  train  gits 
through.  April's  an  awful  scanty  month  in  the  country,  and  I 
expected  supplies  to-day  myself.  You  ain't  the  only  one  them 
sun-spots's  been  foolin'  with. 

AMES.  I  suppose  that's  as  good  an  explanation  as  any  for  a 
train  over  eleven  hours  late — sun-spots! 

STATION-MASTER  [looking  in  the  lunch  basket}.  Why,  you 
got  food  here,  right  now.  Good  food ! 


262  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

AMES.  One  chicken  sandwich  and  one  hard-boiled  egg;  left 
over  from  a  light  lunch — a  very  light  lunch. 

STATION-MASTER.     Well,  why  don't  you  eat  it? 

AMES  [shortly].  It  isn't  mine.  [Pushes  basket  to  STATION- 
MASTER.] 

STATION-MASTER  [surprised].  Oh!  [He  nods;  glances  up 
off  left,  and  nods  again,  as  if  understanding.']  Well,  waitin'  fer 
trains  does  git  people  kind  of  pettish  with  each  other.  [Rises 
and  moves  right.  Glances  off  left.]  I  noticed  your  wife's  still 
a-settin'  on  that  baggage-truck  out  yonder. 

AMES  [shortly].     She  isn't  my  wife! 

STATION-MASTER.  Oh!  Your  lady,  I  mean.  She's  still 
settin'  out  yonder,  I  see. 

AMES  [rather  bothered,  shakes  his  head,  mutters].  She  isn't 
my  lady.  [He  gets  up  and  goes  to  the  window.] 

STATION-MASTER.  Well,  excuse  me.  My  brother-in-law, 
he  took  her  and  you  fer  married.  [AMES  comes  down  left.] 
He  told  me  you  and  her  had  kind  of  a  spat,  jest  before  he  left 
here,  this  evenin'.  But  of  course  a  man's  got  a  right  to  quarrel 
with  other  women's  well's  his  wife. 

AMES  [slightly  annoyed  with  himself  for  being  annoyed  by 
this  report  of  the  STATION-MASTER'S  brother-in-law].  The — 
ah — lady  and  I  were  hardly — ah — quarreling. 

STATION-MASTER  [platativeiy].  To  tell  the  truth; ...  .^ 
[Crosses  left.]  My  brother-in-law  ain't  hardly  got  sense  enough 
to  tell  the  difference  between  a  couple  that's  quarrelin'  and  a 
couple  that's  jest  kind  of  startin'  to  make  up  to  each  other  like. 
[Sits  left  end  of  front  bench.] 

AMES  [more  annoyed].  This  lady  and  I  weren't  doing 
either.  I  never  saw  her  before  I  got  on  the  train  this  morning. 

STATION-MASTER.  Well,  that  often  happens.  I've  knowed 
plenty  of  perfeckly  respectable  people  to  do  it,  too.  You  might 
say  it's  nature. 

AMES.    What  is? 

STATION-MASTER.  Why,  fer  strange  couples  to  git  to  talkin* 
to  each  other — and  all  so  on — on  a  train. 

AMES  [rather  crossly].  I  didn't  speak  to  this  lady  on  the 
train.  [He  goes  up  left  and  comes  right  down  again.]  In 
fact,  we  didn't  speak  to  each  other  till  we'd  been  moping  about 
this  God-forsaken  station  for  an  hour.  Then,  as  there  wasn't 
anything  else  in  the  world  in  sight  but  mud — and  your  brother- 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  263 

in-law — and  she  didn't  need  to  guess  very  hard  to  guess  I  was 
hungry — she  offered  to  share  her  lunch  basket  with  me,  and  we 
naturally  got  to  talking. 

STATION-MASTER.  Well,  sir,  a  person  can  git  mighty  well 
acquainted  with  anybody  in  about  ten  hours'  talkin'. 

AMES  [crossly].  We  haven't  been  talking  for  the  last  two 
hours. 

STATION-MASTER.  Got  acquainted  at  noon  and  quit  speakin' 
already!  [Rises.  Chuckles.] 

AMES.  Oh,  no.  She  still  speaks — at  least  she  nodded  to 
show  that  she  heard  me,  the  last  time  I  spoke  to  her.  [He  is 
grimly  humorous  here,  but  does  not  smile.] 

STATION-MASTER.  Well,  sir;  it's  funny,  some  people  don't 
more'n  say  howdy-do,  they  can't  neither  of  'em  hardly  stand  a 
word  the  other  one  says.  [Crosses  right.]  I  sh'd  think  she'd  be 
chilly  out  there,  by  this  time,  though. 

AMES  [looks  at  the  STATION-MASTER  earnestly].  You 
seem  to  be  a  man  of  unusual  experience.  [Crosses  center.] 

STATION-MASTER.  Unusual  ?  I  guess  if  you  think  that,  you 
ain't  married. 

AMES  [muttering].     No,  and  not  likely  to  be. 

STATION-MASTER.  Look  out,  mister!  No  man  in  a  spat 
with  a  lady  ain't  safe!  Where's  she  bound  fer? 

AMES.  I  think  she  said  a  station  about  thirty  or  forty  miles 
from  here — Amity. 

STATION-MASTER.  Amity?  She's  worse  ofFn  what  you 
are! 

AMES.     No,  that's  impossible ! 

STATION-MASTER.  Amity's  on  the  branch  line.  Every 
thing's  blowed  to  hell  down  that  way ;  creeks  over  the  rails  and 
all. 

AMES.  Isn't  there  any  way  of  getting  a  motor  car? 
[Rises.] 

STATION-MASTER.  Not  with  the  telephone  lines  down  like 
they  are.  I  don't  reckon  no  car  could  git  through  these  roads, 
neither. 

AMES  [gloomily].  Yes;  so  your  brother-in-law  said.  [A 
clicking  is  heard  off  right]  Isn't  that  your  telegraph  instru 
ment?  [Indicating  right] 

STATION-MASTER  [jumping  up].  So  'tis.  [Going  right] 
That  means  they  got  the  wire  up  again  at  Logan's  station. 


264  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

Well,  now  we'll  see  what's  what,  mebbe!  [Exits  right,  leav 
ing  the  door  open.  The  telegraph  instrument  can  be  heard 
clicking.  AMES  listens  at  the  open  door,  right,  a  moment;  then 
he  goes  to  the  door  up  right,  opens  it,  and  speaks  off ;  as  before.] 

AMES.  I  think  you'd  better  come  in  now,  Miss  Stuart. 
[In  response,  a  thrillingly  lovely  voice  is  heard,  though  the 
words  are  not  necessarily  discernible.  However,  what  Miss 
STUART  says  is,  "  I'm  quite  comfortable  here,  thank  you."]  I 
really  think  you'd  better  come  in.  There  may  be  some  news  of 
your  train — or  mine!  [This  seems  to  mean  more  to  Miss 
STUART  than  have  his  previous  appeals.  Her  voice  is  heard 
again,  "Oh!"  She  is  evidently  approaching.  AMES,  seri 
ously.]  That's  better.  Do  come  in  and  be  sensible.  [Her 
voice  is  heard  once  more  before  she  appears.  A  faint  amuse 
ment  and  protest  are  audible  in  it:  ff  Sensible?  My  dear 
sir!  "  He  holds  the  door  open  for  her  as  she  appears  and  comes 
down.  Then  he  follows.  She  is  of  a  lovely  and  charming  pres 
ence;  one  is  aware  of  that  instantly  though  she  is  pretty  thor 
oughly  muffled  in  furs  and  veils;  and  one  becomes  even  more 
aware  of  it  as  she  pushes  up  the  veil  from  her  face  as  she  comes 
in.  A  muff  is  held  in  her  left  hand.] 

Miss  STUART.  My  dear  sir,  I  think  maybe  I  could  be  more 
sensible  if  the  news  turns  out  to  be  of  my  train.  Could  you 
stand  its  being  about  my  train  instead  of  yours,  Mr.  Ames? 
[Comes  down  right.  She  has  gone  toward  the  lunch  basket.] 

AMES  [a  little  stiffly].  If  mine  came  first  you'd  be  relieved 
of  me.  [At  upper  end  of  benches,  left.] 

Miss  STUART.  Yes;  so  I  should.  [She  lifts  the  lid  of  the 
lunch  basket,  closed  by  the  STATION-MASTER.]  Oh,  you 
haven't  eaten  the  sandwich — nor  the  egg  either!  [As  if  in  re 
proachful  surprise.] 

AMES  [stiffly].     Certainly  not.     [Comes  down  left.] 

Miss  STUART  [lifting  a  hard-boiled  egg  from  the  basket 
daintily,  in  a  gloved  hand].  Didn't  you  even  nibble  at  it? 
[She  looks  at  him,  not  at  the  egg.] 

AMES  [stiffly].     I  did  not. 

Miss  STUART.    Are  you  sure? 

AMES  [indignantly].  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  "nibbling" 
things. 

Miss  STUART  [with  a  hint  of  suspicion  and  severity]. 
You're  sure?  I  knew  a  Bishop  once  who  used  to  steal  little 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  265 

bits  of  icing  off  of  icing  cakes.  He'd  slip  out  in  the  kitchen  on 
baking  days  when  no  one  was  looking — and  then  he'd 
deny  it ! 

AMES  [coldly,  interrupting  her}.     I'm  not  a  Bishop,  please. 

Miss  STUART  {reasonably}.  How  could  I  tell?  I've  only 
known  you —  [She  glances  at  the  clock.}  Ten  hours  and 
thirty-some  minutes,  and  this  is  the  first  time  you've  mentioned 
that  you're  not  a  Bishop.  [With  an  increase  of  severity.} 
Why  didn't  you  eat  this  egg? 

AMES  [coldly}.     You  know  perfectly  well  why  I  didn't. 

Miss  STUART.  But  I  thought  you  would,  if  I  left  you  alone 
with  it.  I've  left  you  alone  with  it  on  purpose — two  hours. 
I'm  afraid  you're  stubborn. 

AMES.     More  personalities? 

Miss  STUART.  Well,  doesn't  a  question  of  what  one  eats 
have  to  be  rather  personal  ? 

AMES.  I  think  you  made  it  personal  when  you  lost  your 
temper. 

Miss  STUART  [interrupting}.  When  I  lost  my  temper? 
Oh,  ohi 

AMES.  But  you  did!  [Coming  towards  her.}  You  lost 
your  temper  and  declined  to  sit  in  the  same  room  with  me. 
Rather  than  do  that  you  went  out  in  the  night  air  and  sat  two 
hours  on  a  baggage  truck!  [Turns  away  to  left.} 

Miss  STUART  [hurriedly}.  Please  listen,  Mr.  Ames — your 
name  is  Ames,  isn't  it?  [There  is  a  stronger  hint  of  humor  in 
her  voice.} 

AMES.  You  seemed  to  have  no  doubt  of  it  before  you  lost 
your — 

Miss  STUART  [interrupting}.  Mr.  Ames,  let's  put  it  this 
way:  I  lost — your  temper;  as  for  me,  it  seems  at  least  you 
ought  to  distinguish  between  a  loss  of  temper  and  a  sense  of 
injury. 

AMES  [quickly}.     Yes,  I  had  the  sense  of  injury. 

Miss  STUART.  When  we  found  there  was  only  one  egg  and 
one  sandwich  left  for  dinner,  and  no  other  food  in  reach,  I 
said — 

AMES  [interrupting}.  You  distinctly  said  it  wouldn't  be 
enough  for  two. 

Miss  STUART.  Yes.  That's  what  I  "  distinctly  "  said.  It 
really  isn't  enough  for  one,  is  it? 


266  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

AMES.  Need  I  explain  again,  I  had  no  intention  of  asking 
to  share  it  with  you? 

Miss  STUART.  No.  Dont  explain  again.  When  I  said 
there  wasn't  enough  for  two  I  meant — * 

AMES  [interrupting].  It  was  yours,  and  you  meant  you 
wanted  it  all,  naturally. 

Miss  STUART  [indignantly'].     Oh! 

AMES.  What  /  minded  was  your  thinking  I  expected  any 
of  it. 

Miss  STUART.  When  I  said  there  wasn't  enough  for  two 
I  meant  /  expected  to  eat  all  of  it,  did  I  ? 

AMES.     Why,  of  course. 

Miss  STUART  [after  drawing  an  indignant  breath.  Puts  egg 
in  basket].  Now,  before  I  go  out  for  two  hours  more  on  the 
baggage-truck,  will  you  please  ask  that  man  if  there  is  any  news 
of  my  train? 

AMES  [stiffly].     Certainly. 

Miss  STUART.     Thank  you. 

AMES.  Don't  mention  it.  [Goes  to  doorj  right,  and  speaks 
off.]  What  do  they  wire  you  about  .  .  . 

STATION-MASTER  [voice  off  right].  Nothin'  yet  about  m 
passenger  traffic. 

AMES  [turning  toward  Miss  STUART].  He  says  there's 
nothing  yet. 

Miss  STUART  [sinking  upon  the  front  bench].  Oh!  [She 
sighs  with  exasperation  sits  on  front  bench]  You  said  there 
was  news. 

AMES.  There  will  be  in  a  few  minutes,  now  the  wire's 
working. 

Miss  STUART.  Well,  do  you  still  pretend  not  to  under 
stand  ? 

AMES.     Understand  what?     [Comes  down  right] 

Miss  STUART.  That  of  course  I  meant  men  need  more  sus 
tenance  than  women,  and  of  course  when  I  said  there  wasn't 
enough  food  for  two  I  meant  /  didn't  want  any — that  is,  I  did 
want  it,  certainly,  but  I  wouldn't  touch  it  because — because 
you're  a  man  and  ought — to  have  it  all. 

AMES  [in  an  earnestly  interested  voice].  Do  you  honestly 
mean  that?  [He  sits  on  the  bench,  right  of  Miss  STUART, 
looking  at  her  with  great  earnestness] 

Miss  STUART.     Why,  of  course. 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  267 

AMES.     Are  you  serious? 

Miss  STUART.     Why,  of  course  I'm  serious. 

AMES.     You  really  wanted  me  to  eat  it  all? 

Miss  STUART.     Certainly. 

AMES  [remorsefully].  I  thought  you  were  warning  me  your 
hospitality  was  over  when  it  came  to  one  egg  and  one  sand 
wich. 

Miss  STUART  [glancing  at  the  clock].  Ten  hours  and 
thirty-seven  minutes.  You  certainly  ought  to  know  me  well 
enough  to  understand  better  than  that! 

AMES.  You  honestly  mean  I  ought  to  eat  it  all  because  I'm 
a  man. 

Miss  STUART.  Of  course.  It  hurts  a  man  a  great  deal 
more  not  to  indulge  himself  than  it  does  a  woman.  When 
there's  only  a  little  of  anything,  it  ought  always  to  be  given  to 
the  man. 

AMES.     Because  he's  the  more  selfish  ? 

Miss  STUART.  No.  Because  he  has  to  have  his  strength. 
A  woman  can  live  "  on  her  nerves." 

AMES.  So  you  think  the  woman  ought  to  give  up  the  food 
to  the  man.  [This  is  serious  on  his  part,  and  appears  to  be 
serious  on  hers;  though  one  cannot  always  be  sure  when  she  is 
serious.  There  is  a  mysteriousness  about  her;  we  wont  really 
know  her  for  a  considerable  time] 

Miss  STUART.  I  think  she'd  better.  If  she  didn't  she 
might  be  mistreated ! 

AMES  [frowning].  So!  Her  unselfishness  is  only  self- 
preservation,  is  it? 

Miss  STUART  [with  a  twinkle].  No.  She  wants  to  pre 
serve  them  both.  If  the  Indians  come  the  man  will  have  to  do 
most  of  the  fighting;  if  the  waters  rise  he'll  have  to  build  a 
raft.  If  it  gets  very  chilly  [she  glances  at  the  stove]  he'll  have 
to  build  a  fire. 

AMES  [following  her  glance].  It  is  very  chilly.  I  won 
der —  [He  rises  and  goes  to  the  door  rightf  calls  off.]  How 
about  a  fire  in  that  stove? 

STATION-MASTER  [off  right].  It's  fixed,  if  you  want  to 
light  it. 

AMES.  All  right.  [He  crosses  to  the  stove,  producing  a 
match  which  he  lights  and  places  within  the  door  of  the  stove. 
In  a  moment  a  rosy  glow  comes  from  the  door  of  the  stove, 


268  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

which  opens  toward  right.  He  watches  it  and  the  lady  inscruta 
bly  watches  him.] 

Miss  STUART.  It  is  a  new  experience.  [She  loosens  her 
furs  as  the  glow  grows  stronger  from  the  stove.] 

AMES.     My  lighting  a  fire  for  you? 

Miss  STUART  [indicating  the  lunch  basket'}.  No.  To  see 
a  man  making  such  a  fuss  about  eating  when  he's  starving. 

AMES  [returning  to  her,  he  smiles].     Suppose  we  divide  it. 

Miss  STUART.     You  might  have  thought  of  that  before. 

AMES.     /  might?     Why,  it  was  you  that  said — 

Miss  STUART.  Have  you  a  pocket-knife — with  a  very  clean 
blade?  [He  hands  his  knife  to  her  with  a  blade  open.]  Yes, 
I  thought  you  looked  like  a  man  who  would  have.  I'll  do  the 
dividing,  and  you'll  do  the  choosing —  [He  sits  end  of  bench. 
She  cuts  the  egg  so  that  the  two  parts  are  anything  but  equal; 
the  smaller  part  is  about  a  fifth  of  the  egg.  She  cuts  the  sand 
wich  in  the  same  uneven  way.]  There.  Choose. 

AMES.  Thanks.  [He  takes  the  small  bit  of  egg  and  the 
tiny  fragment  of  the  sandwich.] 

Miss  STUART.  Well,  eat  them.  [He  does  so.  His  por 
tions  vanish  as  if  hardly  realized  as  they  pass.  Meanwhile  she 
is  cutting  the  egg  and  the  sandwich  again.] 

AMES  [as  he  swallows  the  two  small  bits  together].  Thanks. 
Aren't  you — 

Miss  STUART.  Oh,  yes,  I'm  only —  [She  offers  the  newly 
divided  portions.],  Here. 

AMES.     Oh,  no.     I've  had  my  share. 

Miss  STUART  [laughing  a  little].  That  was  a  test,  to  see 
how  you'd  choose.  Now  it's  a  fair  division. 

AMES.  No.  I  really —  [He  takes  off  his  overcoat  and 
sits  on  the  bench,  near  her.] 

Miss  STUART.  Don't  let's  be  ridiculous  any  more.  I  im 
agine  neither  of  us  has  much  right  to  behave  like  a  child  of 
ten — or  nineteen  for  that  matter.  Here!  [She  insists  upon  his 
taking  what  she  offers.] 

AMES.  It  doesn't  seem  fair.  [He  accepts  what  is  offered 
and  eats.]  Murder,  but  I  am  hungry! 

Miss  STUART.  And  there's  still  some  coffee  in  the  thermos. 
Didn't  you  know  it?  [She  pours  it  in  the  cap-cup  of  the 
bottle  as  she  speaks,  turning  the  bottle  upside  down  to  get 
the  last.] 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  269 

AMES.  No!  Is  there  some  coffee  left?  My,  my!  [She 
puts  the  cup  in  his  hand.]  Coffee! 

Miss  STUART.  Yes,  that  is  lucky.  [She  puts  the  remain 
ing  bit  of  egg  upon  the  remaining  bit  of  sandwich.]  Here, 
this  is  yours,  too,  to  go  with  the  coffee.  Eat  it!  [He  does  so 
before  he  thinks.]  That's  it! 

AMES.  Oh,  lovely!  A  whole  mouthful  at  once!  [He  fin 
ishes  the  coffee  in  a  gulp;  then  starts.]  That  was  yours! 
[Rise*.] 

Miss  STUART.     No,  no,  it  wasn't. 

AMES.  Why,  it  was!  [He  goes  back  of  bench  to  center. ~\ 
Have  you  given  me  all  the  coffee,  too?  [He  shakes  the  thermos 
bottle  and  turns  it  upside  down.]  Well,  by  George!  Did 
you  do  that  to  escape  mistreatment? 

Miss  STUART.  No.  It  was  just  the  way  I  was  brought  up. 
[Goes  left  and  throws  paper  napkins,  etc.,  into  stove.] 

AMES.     You  were  brought  up  to  make  a  man  be  selfish? 

Miss  STUART.  About  food  and  when  he  thinks  he's  sick, 
yes.  That  was  the  old-fashioned  way  of  bringing  girls  up, 
wasn't  it? 

AMES.     I  thought  that  went  out  a  long  time  ago. 

Miss  STUART.     It  prevailed  in  my  girlhood,  you  see. 

AMES  [seriously,  quickly].  Well,  that  couldn't  have  been 
very  long  ago. 

Miss  STUART  [putting  the  thermos  bottle  in  the  basket  and 
closing  the  lid,  she  smiles  faintly].  No?  Hasn't  the  Station- 
Master  any  news  for  us  yet  ?  [  The  STATION-MASTER  answers 
for  himself.  Enters  right  as  she  speaks,  carrying  his  lantern 
and  a  bucket  of  coal.  Goes  left  back  of  benches  and  down  to 
stove.] 

STATION-MASTER.  Not  very  good,  I  reckon.  .  .  .  Least  not 
as  you'd  think.  You  won't  git  no  train  fer  Amity  to-night. 

Miss  STUART  [disturbed,  but  she  has  usually  somewhere  a 
little  humor  left  for  her  own  misfortune].  Not  to-night! 

STATION-MASTER.  No'm ;  an'  so  fur  as  /  know,  not  before 
noon,  or  mebbe  three — four — five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  to 
morrow. 

Miss  STUART  [weakly].  Will  there  be  any  food  in  this 
part  of  America  to-morrow? 

STATION-MASTER  [pouring  some  coal  into  the  stove].  Not 
as  I  know  of  now. 


270  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

Miss  STUART.     Good  gracious! 

AMES  [huskily'].     How  about  my  train? 

STATION-MASTER.  Number  Twenty-one?  If  she  don't  git 
no  later  she'll  be  due  by  eight  or  nine  in  the  morning. 

AMES  [quickly].     Is  there  a  diner  on  her? 

STATION-MASTER.  On  Number  Twenty-one?  A  diner? 
My  gosh!  [He  sets  the  coal  bucket  down  by  the  stove  with 
a  bang,  and  puts  shovel  full  of  coal  in  stove.] 

AMES.     Isn't  there  a  buffet? 

STATION-MASTER.     Mister,  they's  a  caboose;  that's  all. 

AMES.     Oh,  my! 

STATION-MASTER  [buttoning  his  overcoat  and,  moving  to 
ward  right],  They's  more  coal  in  yonder,  if  you  need  it. 

Miss  STUART  [looking  at  him  incredulously].  Where  are 
you  going?  [She  jumps  up,  continuing  instantly.]  Mr.  Ames, 
you'd  better  ask  him  where  he's  going. 

STATION-MASTER  [easily].  Me?  Why  you  ast  me  your 
self.  Where  you  think  I'm  goin'?  I'm  goin'  home  to  bed. 

Miss  STUART   [gravely,  quickly].     You  are?     [Rises.] 

STATION-MASTER.    Yes'm.     I  got  to  sleep  same  as  anybody. 

AMES.     What?     Why,  you  can't! 

STATION-MASTER.  Why,  /  ain't  got  anything  more  to  do 
around  here  till  jest  before  Twenty-one's  due.  [Then,  reas 
suringly.]  I'll  be  back  by  seven-thirty  in  the  morning,  though. 

AMES.     But  this  lady — w^here's  she  going  to  sleep  f 

STATION-MASTER  [disclaiming  responsibility].  I  couldn't 
tell  you. 

AMES.     What  about  your  house?    Can't  she  .  .  . 

STATION-MASTER  [looking  at  Miss  STUART].  In  the  first 
place,  how  would  she  git  through  the  mud  ?  [Shows  his  boots, 
dried  mud  to  the  knee.] 

AMES.  Why — why,  we  could  take  her  on  the  baggage- 
truck.  [This,  he  thinks,  is  a  real  idea] 

Miss  STUART  [graciously].     No,  thank  you. 

STATION-MASTER.  No  room  for  her  if  she  got  there.  No 
way  to  make  none,  either. 

AMES.     What  about  your  brother-in-law's  house? 

STATION-MASTER.  'Bout  same  as  me.  Him  and  his  wife 
and  two  childern's  in  one  room  and  the  other  five  childern's 
in  the  other. 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  271 

Miss  STUART.     No,  thank  you. 

AMES.     Well,  but,  good  heavens  .  .  . 

Miss  STUART  [soothingly].     Never  mind.     It's  all  right. 

AMES  [turning  back  to  the  STATION-MASTER].  Well,  but 
look  here — 

STATION-MASTER.  Mister,  you  can  make  yourself  com- 
fatble  enough;  it's  nice  and  warm  here  now;  and  night-duty 
when  they  ain't  no  trains  runnin',  why  that  ain't  part  o'  my 
job.  I  got  a  heavy  day  to-morrow,  and  I  need  sleep.  Good 
night,  lady!  [He  goes  out  briskly  up  right.  Miss  STUART 
goes  to  stove,  left.] 

AMES.  Well,  good  heavens —  [He  goes  up  nervously, 
opens  the  door,  steps  out  and  calls  after  the  STATION-MASTER.] 
Listen — you!  See  here! 

STATION-MASTER  [outside].    Good  night! 

AMES.  But  see  here —  [There  is  no  response,  and  after 
a  few  moments  AMES  closes  the  door,  much  disturbed.  Miss 
STUART  stands  near  the  stove,  observes  him;  then  laughs  faintly.] 

Miss  STUART.  Don't  worry  about  me;  I'm  an  old  traveler. 
We  can  be  comfortable  enough ;  it  is  warm  now ! 

AMES.  I'll — I'll  go  take  a  nap — later — on  the  baggage- 
truck.  [Jerks  his  head  toward  up  left.] 

Miss  STUART.  How  absurd!  I  nearly  froze  out  there, 
even  in  these.  [Her  furs.] 

AMES  [almost  pathetically].     But  what's  to  be  done? 

Miss  STUART.  Nothing.  When  railroads  break  down  pas 
sengers  can't  travel,  can  they? 

AMES.  I  ought  to  be  able  to  think  of  something  to  do. 
[Comes  down  right.] 

Miss  STUART.  Well,  for  one  thing,  now  that  all  the  of 
ficials  have  gone,  I  don't  think  you  need  to  bother  about  that 
sign  any  longer.  [She  points  to  "  No  Smoking."]  Don't  you 
usually  smoke — after  dinner?  [She  laughs  on  the  word  'din 
ner1'  with  a  glance  at  the  lunch  basket,  and  then  sits  again, 
throwing  back  her  fur  coat.] 

AMES  [a  little  awkwardly].  Oh,  thanks.  [Comes  down 
right.  He  brings  forth  a  cigarette-case.]  But  that  won't  be 
of  much  use,  will  it  ? 

Miss  STUART.     Well,  what  else  useful  can  you  think  of? 

AMES.     I  can't  think  of  a  thing. 


272  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

Miss  STUART.  Neither  can  I.  So — [she  laughs  faintly, 
crosses  to  left  center,  and  sits  on  front  bench] — so  where  are 
your  matches? 

AMES  [produces  a  box  of  matches,  then  makes  a  gesture  as. 
if  to  offer  her  his  cigarette-easel .  Ah — do  you — ? 

Miss  STUART  [shaking  her  head].  No;  I  still  stick  to  the 
way  I  was  brought  up.  [She  takes  off  her  heavy  coat.  Not 
rising.] 

AMES  [seriously].  No!  Is  there  still  an  old-fashioned 
woman  left  in  America? 

Miss  STUART.     Yes.     "Left"  is  the  word.     Left  over! 

AMES.     How  "left  over"? 

Miss  STUART.     Old  maids  are,  aren't  they? 

AMES.  Old  bachelors  are!  That's  what  /  am.  [Lights 
his  cigarette,  adding  grimly:'}  An  old  bachelor,  and  perhaps 
an  older  one  than  I  look,  too !  A  little,  that  is. 

Miss  STUART  [wistfully'].  What's  it  matter  how  many 
times  you've  seen  the  earth  go  round  the  sun?  That's  all  we 
mean  when  we  say  "  a  year,"  isn't  it?  Our  ages  ought  to  be 
reckoned  another  way;  not  in  these  foolish  "  years." 

AMES.     What  other  way  do  you  suggest  ? 

Miss  STUART.  Well,  let's  call  a  man  as  old  as  he  behaves 
— toward  a  woman ! 

AMES.     Then  how  old  will  you  call  a  woman? 

Miss  STUART.     As  old  as  she  makes  men  behave  toward  her. 

AMES  [with  a  little  laugh].  Well,  if  I'm  as  old  as  I  be 
have  now-a-days  toward  women,  I'm  dead. 

Miss  STUART  [smiling'].  But  what's  the  matter  with  the 
women  you  know? 

AMES  [laughs  ruefully,  and  walks  about  as  he  speaks]. 
Well,  most  of  those  I  did  know  are  so  married  and  raising 
children  I  hardly  ever  see  'em  at  all.  And  I  just  can't  stand 
the  new  generation. 

Miss  STUART  [thoughtfully].  Yes — there  is  a  new  Amer 
ican  girl.  I've  got  one  myself. 

AMES  [starinff].     You  have? 

Miss  STUART.  I'm  bringing  up  an  orphan  niece — or  she's 
bringing  me  up;  it's  hard  to  say  which.  In  fact,  I'm  bringing 
up  two  orphan  nieces.  [She  smiles  at  a  thought.]  Only  one 
of  'em  belongs  to  the  new  generation,  though.  You  don't  like 
these  new  young  things  then? 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  273 

AMES.  Great  Lord,  no!  They  smoke  and  drink  and  wear 
men's  clothes  and  short  hair — 

Miss  STUART.  Well,  boys'  clothes  are  better  for  the  out 
door  things  they  do  nowadays,  aren't  they? 

AMES.  That  may  be,  but  they've  given  up  a  great  thing  to 
get  this  new  liberty  I  hear  they  talk  about. 

Miss  STUART.     What  great  thing  did  they  give  up? 

AMES  [emphatically'].     Charm! 

Miss  STUART.     You  haven't  met  a  charming  one  ? 

AMES.  There  aren't  any.  How  can  a  brazen  little  hussy 
in  breeches  with  a  flask  of  home-made  gin  in  her  hip  pocket 
have  any  charm? 

Miss  STUART.  Ah — but  she  can,  because  she  has  youth,  and 
youth  is  charm.  Don't  you  care  for  the  youth  you  see  in  a 
young  girl? 

AMES  [sitting  down  by  her}.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  care  for. 
I  care  for  the  graces  I  used  to  see  in  the  girls  I  grew  up  with. 

Miss  STUART.  You're  sure  it  wasn't  really  their  youth  that 
gave  them  the  graces? 

AMES.  I  can  show  you  what  I  care  for!  [Very  earnestly 
and  decisively.}  To-morrow  we'll  be  moving  miles  and  miles 
apart.  .  .  . 

Miss  STUART.  Will  we?  I'm  afraid  you  think  more  of 
this  railroad  system  than  I  do. 

AMES.  I'm  serious.  Probably  after  to-morrow  morning 
we'll  never  see  each  other  again. 

Miss  STUART.  Why,  I  feel  as  if  you  were  my  most  intimate 
friend!  Life-long!  After  we  finished  Italy,  wasn't  it  two 
hours  you  talked  about  religion  ? 

AMES.     What  I'm  trying  to  show  you — 

Miss  STUART.     Yes;  I  forgot. 

AMES.  I  had  a  temptation  to  tell  you  something  that  would 
show  you. 

Miss  STUART  [gaily}.  Why,  you  could  tell  me  anything. 
I  couldn't  stop  you.  [Her  gesture  indicates  the  surrounding 
isolation.} 

AMES.  Then  I  will.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  thought  about 
you  when  I  got  on  that  little  junk-line  train  this  morning.  I 
hadn't  expected  to  see  anybody  looking  like  you  getting  on  at 
one  of  these  way  stations — 

Miss  STUART.     I'm  a  farmer,  you  know.     I  have  a  farm 


274  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

down  near  Amity.  I've  been  away  to  see  about  a  new  tenant 
for  part  of  the  land!  [Then  abruptly.]  Oh,  I  don't  mean 
to  stop  you!  Go  on! 

AMES.  When  you  got  on  the  train  I  thought:  "There! 
There's  a  lady !  "  When  these  ne ^-generation  girls  get  on  a 
train  I  usually  think:  "  There!  There's  a  rowdy!  " 

Miss  STUART.     You  must  have  met  some  strange  ones! 

AMES.  I  haven't  met  any.  Just  hearing  and  looking  at 
'em's  enough  for  met  But  when  I  looked  at  you — well,  I'm 
going  to  talk  as  sentimentally  as  I  feel,  just  for  once  in  my 
life — when  I  looked  at  you  I  caught  a — a  perfume  of  sweeter 
days — yes,  better  days  than  this!  And  I'll  go  ahead,  now  I'm 
started;  I'm  hungry  as  a  bear,  in  spite  of  your  giving  me  all 
your  lunch,  and  I  did  feel  really  cross,  during  our  quarrel,  but 
I'm  glad  the  sun-spots — he  thought  it  was  the  sun-spots — I'm 
glad  they've  given  me  this  chance  to  know  you. 

Miss  STUART.  My  dear  man,  you  don't  know  an  earthly 
thing  about  me! 

AMES.  Oh,  yes,  I  do.  There  are  some  people  you  know 
all  about  in  a  little  while. 

Miss  STUART.     "All  about?"     Good  gracious! 

AMES.  No ;  not  all.  You  don't  know  all  the  lovely  things 
about  'em,  but  you  do  know  there  aren't  any  things  that  arent 
lovely;  you're  one  of  those  transparently  perfect  things,  Miss 
Stuart. 

Miss  STUART.    What? 

AMES  [rises  and  goes  a  little  to  the  right].  You  are.  And 
that's  all  there  is  to  it! 

Miss  STUART.     And  only  to  think  of  it! 

AMES  [turning  to  her,  rather  sharply].     To  think  of  what? 

Miss  STUART.  So  much  praise — bought  by  one  hard-boiled 
egg  and  a  sandwich! 

AMES  [rather  brusquely].  Well,  some  of  it  is  for  that,  if 
you  want  to  know  it!  It  seemed  a  little  thing;  but  it  showed 
that  when  you  were  hungry  yourself  you'd  force  your  last  bit 
of  food  on  a  stranger. 

Miss  STUART.  A  "  stranger  "  ?  Why,  by  this  time  I  know 
you  better  than  I  do  my  most  intimate  friend,  Mr.  Ames! 

AMES  [sits.  Then  pacing  up  and  down  and  going  o?i  with 
his  thought.]  I  kept  looking  at  you  on  the  train,  though  you 
didn't  know  it — 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  275 

Miss  STUART.     I  was  brought  up  always  not  to  know  it. 

AMES  [continuing}.     I  kept  looking  at  you,  and  I — 

Miss  STUART  [quoting  him],  "  I  said  to  myself,  '  There's  a 
woman  I'd  hate  to  be  cast  away  in  a  desert  junction  with! '  " 

AMES.  I  said  to  myself,  "  There's  the  first  woman  I've  seen 
in  a  long  time  I'd  like  to  know!  " 

Miss  STUART.     How  long  a  time? 

AMES.     Well,  since  this  new  type  came  in. 

Miss  STUART  [thoughtfully'].  I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  ap 
prove  of  my  niece! 

AMES.  If  you're  bringing  her  up  I  don't  believe  she'd  be 
the  new  type. 

Miss  STUART.  Oh,  yes,  she  is!  It  doesn't  matter  who 
brings  'em  up ;  they  get  it  from  one  another. 

AMES.     Well,  let's  forget  the  new  type  just  now. 

Miss  STUART  [smiling].    All  right. 

AMES.     I'd  rather  keep  to  what  I  feel  about  you. 

Miss  STUART  [nodding  smilingly}.  Well,  keep  to  it — it 
began  promisingly. 

AMES  [coming  toward  her  a  little  way].  I  will.  I'll  speak 
out!  As  a  man  gets  older  most  of  his  friends  marry  off — or 
they  die  off — it's  the  same  thing  so  far  as  he's  concerned! 

Miss  STUART  [gravely}.    Yes;  I  know  it  is! 

AMES.     Well,  a  man  gets  pretty  lonely. 

Miss  STUART.  Men  always  seem  to  think  that's  so  sin 
gular  ! 

AMES  [quietly}.  All  I  meant  to  say  is  [she  yawns}  it's  been 
a  great  thing  for  me  to  have  a  woman's  companionship  for  a 
day. 

Miss  STUART.     Well,  it  still  seems  to  be  going  on. 

AMES.     I  wish  .  .  . 

Miss  STUART.  Yes?  [She  conceals  a  yawn  by  turning 
away  quickly.  She  doesnt  wish  to  yawn,  she  is  interested;  but 
she  is  beginning  to  be  really  threatened  by  drowsiness.  He  does 
not  perceive  thisf  and  the  symptoms  are,  so  far,  very  slight.} 

AMES  [thoughtfully}.  Of  course  you  don't  know  anything 
about  me — except  to-day — 

Miss  STUART.     I  do,  a  little. 

AMES  [surprised}.     How? 

Miss  STUART.  Why,  you  said  your  name  was  William 
Ames:  I  supposed  you  were  the  William  Berry  Ames  that  the 


276  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

papers  say  is  so  remarkable.  "  Remarkable's  "  the  word  they 
always  use. 

AMES  [frowning].  I'm  not  much  in  newspapers — and  isn't 
it  obvious  I'm  not  remarkable? 

Miss  STUART.  Oh,  yes;  I've  seen  it  any  number  of  times: 
"  Mr.  William  Berry  Ames,  still  playing  remarkable  polo." 

AMES  [sharply].  That's  my  uncle !  [Rises.]  It's  "  still 
remarkable  that  he  plays  polo  at  sixty-six/  "  "  Remarkable  " 
because  he's  sixty-six!  They  always  use  the  word  remarkable 
about  elderly  people.  And  you  thought  .  .  . 

Miss  STUART  [a  little  disturbed,  hastily].     I'm  so  sorry! 

AMES  [somewhat  upset].     You  thought  I  was  that  old  man! 

Miss  STUART  [quickly].  Oh,  I  never  heard  he  was  quite 
sixty-six. 

AMES.     So!     You  didn't  see  how  I  could  be  quite  sixty-six! 

Miss  STUART  [hastily  f  with  apparent  seriousness  in  pla 
cating  him].  But  wouldn't  it  be  wonderful  if  you  were!  To 
be  sixty-six  and  look  only — 

AMES  [interrupting].     What  age  do  I  look? 

Miss  STUART.  Ah,  let's  not  go  into  that.  It  might  be 
come  mutual! 

AMES.     I  can't  get  over  it:  you  thought  I  was  my  uncle! 

Miss  STUART.  You  must  tell  him  about  it.  And  then  tell 
me  sometime  if  it  upsets  him  too. 

AMES  [mollified;  his  tone  changes].  "Sometime."  You 
think  we  might  see  each  other  again  after  to-morrow? 

Miss  STUART.  Why  not,  if  you  think  it  would  be  pleasant  ? 
I  should  be —  [She  is  caught  by  a  yawn  and  conceals  it  im 
perfectly.]  I  should  be — very  glad — 

AMES  [sadly].     Oh,  you're  sleepy. 

Miss  STUART.  I'm  not.  I'm  interested.  I'm  interested  in 
everything  you've  been  saying.  I  was  never  more  interested 
in  my  life. 

AMES.    Honestly  ?    [Sits.] 

Miss  STUART.  At  least,  it's  been  quite  a  time  since  I've 
had  as  cheering  things  said  to  me  as  you've  been  saying.  I 
like  it. 

AMES.     Could  you  stand  some  more? 

Miss  STUART.     I — think  so. 

AMES.  Then,  do  let  me  see  you  again  after  to-morrow,  will 
you? 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  277 

Miss  STUART  [after  a  moment].     Yes. 

AMES.     Could  I  come  to  Amity  to  see  you — sometime? 

Miss  STUART.    Why,  I  think  so. 

AMES.     Could  I  come — before  long? 

Miss  STUART.     If — you  like. 

AMES  [huskily,  gravely,  quickly].  I  think  I  should  like  it 
more  than  I've  ever  liked  anything  in  my  life. 

Miss  STUART  [rather  startled].  Why,  that's — that's  saying 
quite  a  great  deal — isn't  it? 

AMES.     I  can't  help  it.     It's  the  way  I  feeL 

Miss  STUART.  Yes,  but  at  these  pleasant  quieter  years,  you 
say  you  have  arrived  at — haven't  you  learned  more  caution? 

AMES.     More  caution  than  what? 

Miss  STUART.  Than  to  say  quite  so  much  as  you  just  did — 
and  to  an  unknown  woman! 

AMES  [quickly,  with  feeling  that  increases].  I  tell  you 
you're  not  unknown.  You've  shown  me — yes,  just  in  the  way 
you  fed  me,  if  you  like — yes,  and  in  the  dear,  pretty  way  you 
took  this  being  "  cast  away  "  with  me  here,  you've  shown  me 
you  are  the  old-fashioned,  perfect  kind  of  woman — I  thought 
had  disappeared.  Well,  I've  found  you — I  don't  want  to  let 
you  go !  My  life  has  been  getting  so  confoundedly  lonely — I — 
well,  why  not  ? 

Miss  STUART  [gently].  I  don't  know — you're  a  little  in 
definite,  perhaps? 

AMES.  It's  a  long  time  since  I  felt  like  this — and  the  reason 
I'm  lonely's  because  fifteen  or  so  years  ago  I  didn't  speak  when 
something  like  this  came  over  me.  Instead,  I  went  away  to 
think  it  over,  and  another  man  spoke  first. 

Miss  STUART  [with  a  humor  that  fights  with  drowsiness  and 
an  inclination  to  take  him  seriously].  You  needn't  be  afraid  of 
that  now.  Farming  means  a  very  retired  life,  with  me.  No 
one  else  will  "  speak  "  while  you  retire  to  think  it  over.  [She 
closes  her  eyes  for  a  moment] 

AMES.  I  don't  want  to  think  it  over  at  all!  Listen.  Do 
I  seem  to  you  the  sort  of  man  you  could  like  pretty  well? 

Miss  STUART  [looking  up  quickly].  Oh,  I  think  so.  [She 
closes  her  eyes  for  a  moment  again.] 

AMES  [so  impulsively  as  to  be  almost  explosive].  Well,  if 
you'll  let  me  hope  something  might  come  of  it,  I'll  be  any  kind 
of  man  you  want  me  to  be! 


278  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

Miss  STUART  [opening  her  eyes  quickly}.  Aren't  you  a 
little  susceptible,  Mr.  Ames? 

AMES.     Does  it  look  like  it;  to  still  be  a  bachelor  at  my  age? 

Miss  STUART.  But  it  struck  me  you  were — almost — pro 
posing  to  me  just  then. 

AMES  [with  great  feeling].    Well,  I  was.     I  am! 

Miss  STUART.    Almost. 

AMES.     Almost  or  quite — just  as  you  like,  Miss  Stuart. 

Miss  STUART  [smiling  a  little].  Perhaps  it  had  better  be 
"  almost." 

AMES  [with  feeling'] .  If  it's  to  be  that  way — almost  a  pro 
posal — is  there  any  chance  of  your — almost — thinking  of  it? 

Miss  STUART  [gently  and  smiling].  Why — I  might  al 
most — think  of  it — sometime.  [Again  the  symptoms  of 
drowsiness  overtake  her.] 

AMES  [remorsefully].     You  are  sleepy! 

Miss  STUART  [with  feeble  insistence].     I'm  not! 

AMES  [ruefully  humorous,  rising].  I  ought  to  be  ashamed 
trying  to  keep  you  awake  with  a  proposal  of  marriage!  [As 
he  speaks  he  places  a  satchel  on  the  end  of  bench  and  rolls  his 
overcoat  over  it  for  a  pillow.] 

Miss  STUART.  Was  that  all  you  made  it  for — to  keep  me 
awake  ? 

AMES.  You  know  better.  Here;  lie  down.  I'll  cover  you 
over. 

Miss  STUART.  I  won't  take  your  overcoat.  You'll  need 
it.  The  satchel's  a  good  enough  pillow. 

AMES.     No.     It  isn't.     Lie  down. 

Miss  STUART.  Take  your  overcoat  away  or  I'll  sit  up  all 
night.  I  will.  Take  it  away. 

AMES  [submitting].     All  right. 

Miss  STUART.  When  you  lie  down  yourself,  put  your  over 
coat  over  you.  Will  you? 

AMES.     If  I  need  it. 

Miss  STUART  [in  a  matter-of-fact  voice].  No.  Promise 
me. 

AMES.     I  will. 

Miss    STUART    [lying   down   with    her   cheek    against   the 
satchel].     Ah,  that's — ah!     [She  sighs  with  satisfaction.] 
AMES  [gently  covers  her  over  with  her  fur  coat  and  stole. 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  279 

Then  he  discovers  her  muff].  Here.  This  is  a  better  pillow. 
[He  places  it  under  her  head.] 

Miss  STUART.  Thank  you.  You're  very  kind.  [She  is 
silent;  then  says  sleepily:]  I  knew  you  were. 

AMES.     Knew  I  was  what? 

Miss  STUART  [contentedly].     Kind. 

AMES  [muttering].  Who  wouldn't  be?  [He  goes  to  the 
stove.] 

Miss  STUART  [with  her  eyes  shut].  I  had  to  be  up  at  four 
o'clock  and  drive  seventeen  miles  to  get  my  train.  I'd  rather 
stay  awake  and  listen  to  you — you'll  forgive  me  for  being — so 
sleepy — won't  you?  [AMES  turns  the  damper  on  stove.] 

AMES  [smiling,  as  he  looks  round].  Yes.  I'll  forgive  you! 
[He  takes  his  overcoat  and  spreads  it  on  the  second  bench;  puts 
a  "  suit-case  "  for  a  pillow.] 

Miss  STUART  [in  a  sweet  drowsy  voice,  with  her  eyes 
closed].  It  certainly  didn't  seem — appreciative — going  almost 
to  sleep — when  you  were  almost  proposing — but  I  do  appreciate 
it — very  much — 

AMES  [with  feeling].  You  dear  thing!  I  wasn't  "almost 
proposing — "  I  was  all  proposing  and  you  know  it. 

Miss  STUART.  Well,  it's  very  nice  of  you.  I  "think  I'm 
glad — you  were.  But — 

AMES.     But  what? 

Miss  STUART.  We  don't  need  the  light,  do  we?  If  you 
leave  the  stove  door  open — 

AMES  [goes  up  and  snaps  off  the  switch].  There!  [A  rosy 
glow  from  the  stove  door  crosses  the  benches,  falling  upon  the 
recumbent  lady] 

Miss  STUART  [cosily].  There.  That's  better.  [AMES 
goes  to  the  second  bench.]  You'll  put  your  overcoat  over  you? 

AMES.    Yes. 

Miss  STUART.     What  have  you  got  for  a  pillow? 

AMES.     It's  all  right. 

Miss  STUART.     A  suit-case? 

AMES.  It's  plenty.  [Miss  STUART,  without  opening  her 
eyes  or  lifting  her  head,  pulls  the  muff  from  beneath  her  cheek 
and  lets  her  cheek  rest  on  the  satchel.  Then,  not  otherwise 
moving,  she  swings  the  muff  behind  her  to  him.] 

AMES.    What's  that  for? 


28o  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

Miss  STUART.    Your  pillow.    Take  it. 

AMES.     I  won't. 

Miss  STUART.    You  will. 

AMES.    Of  course  I  won't. 

Miss  STUART  [gently  and  confidently}.     You  will. 

AMES.  You  do  make  me  selfish!  [He  takes  the  pillow, 
places  it,  and  sits  on  the  second  bench,  preparing  to  lie  down 
and  pull  his  overcoat  over  him.'] 

Miss  STUART  [in  a  very  sleepy  murmur}.  I'm  sorry  I 
thought  you  were  your  uncle.  [She  is  lying  on  her  right  side, 
and  she  lifts  her  left  hand  over  the  back  of  the  bench  to  him, 
the  rest  of  her  not  moving.  He  takes  it  reverently,  kisses  it 
lightly;  she  brings  the  hand  back  and  puts  it  under  her  cheek. 
She  speaks  disjointedly  and  very  drowsily.}  I  only  thought  so 
because  the  papers  said  he  was  so  remarkable. 

AMES  [gently}.  I  don't  mind  that  now.  [Lies  down  on 
second  bench.} 

Miss  STUART.  It  would  be  too  bad  if  you  met  some  pretty, 
very  young  thing  after — after  it  was  too  late.  Most  men  care 
more  for  early  youth  than  they  do  for —  [A  little  yawn  inter 
rupts  her.} 

AMES  [gently}.     Than  they  do  for  what? 

Miss  STUART.  Than  they  do  for  anything.  Is  the  muff 
all  right  for  a  pillow? 

AMES  [gently}.     I  never  had  such  a  pillow  before. 

Miss  STUART.     Aren't  you  sleepy,  too? 

AMES.  Yes;  the  truth  is,  I  am.  It  seems  strange,  when  I 
feel  so  much  that's  new  to  me — to  be  sleepy — 

Miss  STUART.  Oh,  no.  We  aren't  a  young  couple  at  a 
college  dance — getting  engaged. 

AMES.  No — of  course  not — but  aren't  we — almost — 
[Rises  and  looks  at  her  over  the  back  of  bench.} 

Miss  STUART.     I  think — you  must  go  to  sleep  now. 

AMES.     Yes,  I  will.     [He  stretches  himself  on  the  bench.} 

Miss  STUART.    Are  you  at  all — sure? 

AMES.    Yes,  I  am. 

Miss  STUART.  I  know  what  I  say  sounds  very  sleepy,  and 
I  am  almost  asleep,  but  my  mind,  you  know — 

AMES.    Yes? 

Miss  STUART  [more  sleepily  than  ever}.  My  mind's  work 
ing  just  as  clearly  as  ever,  and  I  keep  thinking  you've  said  all 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  281 

this — so  suddenly — perhaps  you  are  a  little  susceptible — perhaps 
when  you  see  some  pretty  young  thing — you'll — you'll — 

AMES  [decisively].    No,  I  won't. 

Miss  STUART  [dreamily,  in  a  soft,  almost  contented  voice, 
and  smiling  a  little] .  Perhaps  not. 

AMES.  May  I  say  just  one  last  thing  to  you?  It  seems 
foolish — but  it  would  be  pretty  lovely  to  me  if  you'd  let  me 
say  it. 

Miss  STUART.    Say  what? 

AMES.     May  I  say  to  you,  "  Good  night,  dear  "  ? 

Miss  STUART.     I  believe  you  might.     Say  it. 

AMES  [gently].  Good  night,  dear.  [Her  left  hand  goes 
tip  again,  his  own  hand  is  seen  above  the  back  of  the  bench, 
clasping  it;  then  she  returns  it  to  her  cheek.] 

Miss  STUART.  Good  night,  dear.  [There  is  quiet.  The 
'Act  Drop  descends  for  a  few  seconds,  and  rises.  Everything 
is  as  it  was,  except  that  the  rosy  glow  from  the  stove  has  paled, 
and  a  gray  light  shows  outside  the  window.  The  clock  marks 
$:45.  The  light  outside  the  window  grows  a  little  stronger; 
distant  trees  just  coming  into  new  leaf  on  muddy  hills  are  re 
vealed  there — an  April  landscape.  The  light  continually  grows 
stronger  throughout  the  whole  scene.  A  GIRL'S  voice  is  barely 
heard,  shouting  in  the  distance,  "Hello  there J"  (f Hell-ooo 
there!"  Then  after  a  pause,  a  stamping  is  heard  on  the  plat 
form  outside,  as  though  someone  stamped  mud  from  his  shoes. 
A  quick,  sharp  tread  is  heard;  the  knob  of  the  door  up  right  is 
fumbled — then  the  door  is  opened  and  a  GlRL  of  nineteen  en 
ters.  She  is  distractingly  pretty,  in  spite  of — or  it  may  be 
partly  because  of — her  general  style  and  costume.  She  wears 
a  soft  "  sport "  hat,  beneath  which  her  thick  "  bobbed  "  hair  is 
additionally  coquettish.  She  has  on  a  short  overcoat,  knicker 
bockers,  green  stockings  and  high-laced  shoes;  the  latter  cov 
ered  with  mud  which  has  also  splashed  her  stockings.  She 
comes  in  briskly  and  goes  down  left,  then  halts  short  with  a 
breathed  exclamation  as  she  sees  the  two  sleepers,  "  Well,  for 
the  love  oJ  Mike!"  This  is  in  a  husky  whisper.  She  stares. 
A  light  snoring  comes  from  the  second  bench.  She  looks  long 
at  the  first  bench,  smiles;  then  controls  a  tendency  to  laughter. 
Then  she  moves  back  to  the  second  bench  and  looks  at  AMES. 
After  this  contemplation  she  speaks  again  in  the  husky  whisper: 
"Pretty  good-lookin  ole  bird,  if  you  do  snore!"  ,The  snoring 


282  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

stops  with  a  little  snort.  AMES  coughs,  waking  himself.  Sud 
denly  he  sits  up,  dazed,  and  stares  at  the  girl.  She  chokes  down 
an  increasing  tendency  to  mirth  during  their  scene.] 

AMES  [confused].     Oh — ah,  how  d'ya  do. 

THE  GIRL  (FLORENCE).  Sh!  Don't  wake  Aunt  Isabel. 
[After  this  they  both  speak  in  husky  whispers] 

AMES.    Who? 

THE  GIRL,  My  aunt.  [She  gestures  widely  to  Miss 
STUART.]  My  Aunt  Isabel!  Don't  you  know  her? 

AMES  [rises  and  looks  at  Miss  STUART].    Yes,  indeed! 

THE  GIRL.  Well,  I  should  think  so !  I'm  her  niece,  Flor 
ence. 

AMES  [conventionally  but  in  a  whisper].  I'm  glad  to  uh — 
[Shakes  hands.] 

FLORENCE.  A  man  and  I've  been  all  night  tryin'  to  get  here 
in  a  car.  He's  back  in  the  woods  with  it  now,  tryin'  to  get 
it  out  of  a  mud-hole.  We've  had  a  hell  of  a  night! 

AMES.     I  beg  your  pardon? 

FLORENCE.     It  really  was.     Are  you  an  old  friend  of  hers? 

AMES.  I — hope  to  be.  [Rubbing  his  face  and  eyes  with 
his  hands] 

FLORENCE.  We'll  take  you  with  us  when  he  gets  the  car 
out  the  mud.  No  use  to  wake  her  up  till  it  comes. 

AMES.     No.     It's  cold,  isn't  it? 

FLORENCE  [pointing  to  the  stove].  You  might  make  the 
fire  up  if  you  can  do  it  without  waking  her. 

AMES.  I  only  need  to  turn  the  draft.  I  got  up  about  two 
o'clock  and  put  on  some  coal. 

FLORENCE  [as  he  moves  toward  the  stove].     Cigarette? 

AMES.    What? 

FLORENCE.     Got  a  cigarette? 

AMES.     Oh!     [He  hands  her  his  case;  she  takes  one] 

FLORENCE.  Light?  [He  lights  a  match  and  holds  it  for 
her.  She  smiles  at  him  with  brazen  coquetry,  her  hand  on  his 
as  she  lights  the  cigarette  from  the  match].  She  makes  a  fuss 
about  my  smoking.  Don't  tell  her,  will  you?  [She  smiles 
again,  her  face  not  far  from  his;  he  looks  thoughtful.] 

AMES.  No.  [The  fire  begins  to  pick  up.  FLORENCE  turns 
to  AMES  suddenly] 

FLORENCE.     How  long  you  known  her? 

AMES.    What? 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  283 

FLORENCE  [emphasizing  her  whisper}.  How  long  have 
you  known  my  Aunt  Isabel? 

AMES.     Yesterday ! 

FLORENCE  [she  is  suddenly  overcome  with  mirth.  She  lifts 
both  hands  in  a  gesture  of  "  Oh,  go  'way!"  and  choking  with 
laughter,  slaps  him  with  her  two  palms  upon  the  shoulders. 
She  is  unable  to  control  herself;  she  convulses,  leaning  against 
him,  then  clapping  both  hands  over  her  mouth,  runs  spluttering 
to  up  right.  At  the  door  she  checks  herself,  speaks  back  to  him 
huskily].  I'll  see  if  he's  got  the  car  out  the  mud!  [Laughter 
breaks  from  her  as  she  runs  out  of  the  door,  up  right.  AMES 
is  bothered  and  a  little  fascinated.  He  glances  at  ISABEL,  then 
goes  slowly  to  the  door  up  right;  looks  out.  He  comes  down; 
goes  near  the  stove  and  stands,  frowning  thoughtfully.  ISABEL 
murmurs,  she  opens  her  eyes;  they  fall  upon  AMES  without 
expression.  Then  she  smiles  slowly  and  speaks.] 

ISABEL.     I'm  awake. 

AMES  [starts].     Good  morning! 

ISABEL.     Good  morning.    What  time  is  it? 

AMES.     It's  daylight.     Did  you — ah — sleep  well? 

ISABEL.    Yes.     Did  you? 

AMES.    Yes.     I  did. 

ISABEL.  I  was  trying  to  stay  asleep,  but  I  thought —  Was 
the  Station-Master  here  just  now? 

AMES.     No;  it  was  your  niece. 

ISABEL.  What?  [She  stretches  her  hand  to  him;  he  comes 
quickly  and  takes  her  hand.  She  rises.]  You  don't  mean 
it! 

AMES.  Somehow  she  found  you  were  here.  She's  been  all 
night  trying  to  get  a  car  here,  she  said. 

ISABEL.    Why,  the  dear  thing!     Where'd  she  go? 

AMES  [moving  toward  the  door  up  right  with  her].  She 
went  to  see  if —  [The  door  is  flung  open  by  FLORENCE,  re 
turning] 

FLORENCE.     It's  coming!     [Comes  down  right.] 

ISABEL.  Florence!  How'd  you  find  me?  [They  go  to  each 
other  and  embrace.] 

FLORENCE.  We  telephoned  all  over  the  world,  where  the 
wires  weren't  down,  and  this  was  the  only  place  you  could  be! 

ISABEL.     Florence,  this  is  Mr.  Ames. 

FLORENCE    [gaily].     Right-o!     We've  had   quite   a  chat! 


284  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

We'd  better  take  him  home  with  us,  hadn't  we?  [Goes  back 
of  first  bench  to  center.] 

ISABEL  [turning  to  AMES  with  a  little  tremulous  self -con 
sciousness  at  which  she  smiles  herself].  Will  you? 

AMES  [embarrassed].     Ah — you're  very  kind — I — 

FLORENCE  [breezily].  Why,  of  course  we're  not  going  to 
leave  you  here!  It's  only  a  forty  mile  drive  and  we  won't  get 
stuck  by  daylight.  You'll  never  see  breakfast  in  this  hole! 

AMES.     Well,  as  you're  so  kind — 

FLORENCE.  Of  course  you're  coming!  We'll  make  him, 
won't  we,  Aunt  Isabel? 

ISABEL  [a  little  coldly].     I  hope  so. 

AMES  [awkwardly ,  to  FLORENCE],  Well,  since  you're  so 
hospitable — 

FLORENCE  [she  slaps  him  on  shoulder].  Hospitable  noth 
ing;  we  don't  see  a  new  man-person  twice  a  year  in  our  neck 
o'  the  woods,  except  Johnnie  White,  and  we're  used  to  him! 
I  made  the  poor  kid  drive  me,  Aunt  Isabel.  [She  runs  to  the 
door  and  calls  out,  "Yay,  Johnnie!"] 

ISABEL.  "  Brazen  hussies  in  boys'  breeches  " — wasn't  that 
what  you  called  them? 

AMES  [nervously].  Oh,  but  she's  different — she's  your 
niece. 

ISABEL.     Yes,  my  great-niece. 

AMES.     What?     I  beg  your  pardon — 

ISABEL  [calmly].  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  she  isn't  my  niece 
precisely — she's  my  great-niece.  Florence's  father  wasn't — 

AMES  [rather  dazed,  but  trying  to  conceal  it].  Your — she's 
your  0r«rf-niece?  Oh,  yes —  [A  young  man  appears  in  the 
doorway  with  FLORENCE.  FLORENCE  enters  first  and  goes  back 
of  first  bench  to  center,  looking  at  AMES.] 

ISABEL.  Come  in,  Johnnie!  [He  does  so.  He  is  a  boy  of 
about  twenty,  dressed  for  motoring  and  heavily  stained  with 
mud  and  grease;  he  carries  a  woman  s  fur  coat  over  his  arm. 
He  smiles  vaguely  as  he  comes  to  take  ISABEL'S  hand.  She 
goes  on.]  It  was  lovely  of  you  to  drive  all  night  through  the 
mud  to  find  me. 

JOHNNIE   [grinning  vaguely].     Well,  Florence  wanted  me 


ISABEL.     And  we  all  do  what  Florence  wants;  yes.     This 
is  Mr.  Ames,  Mr.  White.     [JOHNNIE  goes  to  center  behind 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  285 

first  bench,  tosses  coat  to  FLORENCE,  and  shakes  hands  as  she 
goes  on.]  If  you'll  help  us  get  our  bags  in  the  car — 

JOHNNIE.  Yes,  indeed.  [He  picks  up  the  bags,  getting 
both  arms  full.  FLORENCE,  with  a  sweet  smile,  gives  the 
coat  to  AMES  to  hold  for  her.~\ 

ISABEL  [continuing  smilingly].  We  ought  to  be  home  by 
seven;  and  there'll  be  food,  Mr.  Ames!  Won't  that  be — 
[She  checks  herself  as  she  sees  the  care  with  which  he  is  putting 
FLORENCE  into  her  coat,  and  goes  to  JOHNNIE,  left  center. 
She  hands  him  her  own  coat,  still  smiling.']  Johnnie,  dear,  if 
you'll —  [JOHNNIE  drops  bags  and  holds  coat  for  ISABEL.] 

JOHNNIE  [politely].     Yes,  indeed,  Miss  Stuart. 

FLORENCE  [to  AMES,  right  center].     I  think  you're  a  rogue! 

AMES  [laughing  consciously  and  rather  uncomfortable]. 
What  nonsense! 

ISABEL.  Now  if  we  can  get  the  things  into  the  car — 
[JOHNNIE  and  AMES  pick  up  the  bags  and  lunch  basket;  AMES 
gets  into  his  overcoat.  ISABEL  goes  on.]  I  think  you'll  have 
to  let  me  sit  by  you,  Johnnie,  going  home.  I  think  you'll  drive 
better. 

JOHNNIE  [a  little  blankly].    Yes'm.    Glad  to  have  you. 

ISABEL.     Are  we  all  ready? 

JOHNNIE  [going  out  up  right  with  bags].     Yes'm. 

FLORENCE  [to  AMES].  D'you  think  you  can  entertain  me 
for  forty  miles?  /  do!  [She  runs  out.] 

AMES  [right  center].  This  is  very  kind  of  you  to  take  me 
in,  this  way — I — ah,  are  you  coming? 

ISABEL  [left  center,  starts  as  if  to  go  out,  then  stops  and 
looks  about  her  wistfully,  yet  smiling  a  little].  I  just 
wanted  to  remember  what  this  room  looks  like — by  daylight. 
Things  change  so  then.  [She  takes  his  arm  and  starts  up  left.] 
I'll  take  your  arm  just  till  we  get  to  the  car;  then  you'll  have 
Florence.  [As  they  go  slowly  up  she  continues  cheerfully:] 
Yes — I  forgot  to  mention  it  last  night;  yes,  she's  my  great- 
niece.  It  wasn't  her  father  who  was  my  brother,  you  see — 

AMES  [feebly].     It  wasn't? 

ISABEL  [cheerfully,  as  they  reach  a  point  near  the  door  and 
pause].  No.  It  was  her  grandfather.  [ISABEL  takes  a  last 
rather  wistfully  smiling  look  about  the  room  as  she  speaks — a 
little  absently.] 

AMES  [trying  not  to  speak  feebly].     Her  grandfather  was? 


286  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

FLORENCE  [enters  door.  Takes  AMES'  arm  with  both  of 
her  hands].  Aren't  you  coming?  You're  going  to  sit  with 
me,  you  know. 

AMES.  Well,  I —  [He  is  rather  bewildered  and  FLOR 
ENCE  pulls  him  out  through  door.  JOHNNIE  enters  door  and 
offers  his  arm  to  ISABEL.] 

ISABEL.    Thank  you,  Johnnie.     [Both  exit.] 


[CURTAIN.] 


ACT  II 

An  interior — a  "  living  room  ff  and  "  sun-room  "  combined — of 
the  house  at  Miss  STUART'S  farm.  It  is  a  cheerful  apart 
ment  in  imaginative  but  quiet  taste. 

The  sun-room  does  not  so  much  open  out  of  the  living-room  as 
form  a  part  of  it — the  upper  part — as  an  ample  sort  of 
alcove.  Very  simple  pilasters  against  the  living-room  wall, 
up  right  and  up  left,  mark  the  lower  corners  of  the  sun- 
room,  giving  the  opening  somewhat  the  effect  of  a  very 
wide  doorway  or  entrance.  From  each  of  these,  the  sun- 
room  walls  (which  consist  principally  of  French  windows) 
extend  a  little  distance  lip;  and  the  living-room  walls  ex 
tend  to  right  and  to  left,  thence  down  to  front.  Two  of 
the  French  windows  of  the  sun-room  are  practicable  doors, 
one  up  right  and  one  up  left.  The  back  of  the  sun-room 
consists  mainly  of  three  French  windows,  through  which 
there  is  a  glimpse  of  trees  just  coming  into  young  April 
leaf.  This  is  only  a  glimpse,  however,  as  the  windows 
(which  are  all  oblong,  and  without  f(  half -moons"  or 
arches  at  the  top)  are  prettily  curtained  with  figured  or 
embroidered  linen.  The  woodwork  of  the  sun-room  is 
apple  green. 

The  living-room  walls  are  done  in  a  rather  warm  shade  of  tan; 
there  is  a  fire-place  with  a  Todhunter  type  of  simple  man 
tel,  right  center;  and  over  it  on  the  wall,  a  large  old- 
fashioned  mirror  with  gilt  frame.  Opposite  the  fire-place, 
left,  are  double  doors.  There  is  a  phonograph  in  the  sun- 
room,  up  right,  the  view  of  which  is  obscured  by  plants 
and  there  is  a  tr  baby-grand "  piano  in  the  corner  of  the 
living-room  up  left,  a  closed  cabinet  stands  against  the  up 
right  wall  of  the  living-room,  opposite  the  piano.  The 
furniture  is  all  comfortable,  pleasant  to  the  eye  and  not 
new;  blue-figured  chintzes  and  easy  upholstery.  There  is 
a  short  blue  velvet  "  davenport  "  or  sofa,  right  center,  near 
the  fireplace,  and  at  its  right  elbow  a  very  dark  green  con 
sole  table. 

287 


288  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

There  is  a  wire  -flower  stand  with  potted  flowers  up  center  in 
the  sun-room,  two  old-fashioned  chairsf  and  a  rag  carpet 
medallion  on  the  floor.  There  are  side-lights,  in  both 
living-room  and  sun-room,  with  shaded  bulbs.  There 
are  some  sprays  of  apple-blossoms  in  a  jar  on  the  piano. 

The  morning  sunshine  is  bright  outside  the  sun-room  windows, 
and  the  place  is  cheerful,  but  not  eye-murdering,  with 
light.  The  fire  is  burning,  left,  and  facing  it  is  an  ft  old 
lady,1'  for  she  is  undeniably  both;  and  with  her  cap,  and 
old-fashioned  gown,  rather  suggests  Whistler's  portrait  of 
his  mother.  She  is  dainty,  but  rather  fretful.  A  youngish 
middle-aged  man,  on  his  knees,  is  rubbing  the  hearth  and 
brass  fender  with  a  rag.  He  is  a  house-servant  in  work 
ing-clothes;  wearing  a  great  old  blue  apron,  his  dark 
trousers  and  waistcoat;  his  shirt-sleeves  are  rolled  up  and 
he  has  omitted  a  collar  and  tie.  The  old  lady  is  FLOR 
ENCE'S  aunt,  ELLEN. 

AUNT  ELLEN  [in  armchair  by  fireplace.  Wishing  him  to 
continue  a  narration].  Well,  and  then,  after  they  had  their 
breakfast — 

HENRY.  Well,  he  went  to  sleep  leanin'  on  the  mantelpiece, 
and  then  she  had  me  take  him  up  to  bed  in  the  big  room. 

AUNT  ELLEN.  Our  having  a  gentleman  visitor,  it's  quite 
exciting. 

HENRY.    Yes'm. 

AUNT  ELLEN.     Is  he  going  to  stay  over  to-night  with  us? 

HENRY.  No'm.  He  said  he  had  to  get  the  noon  train  at 
Clinton  on  the  main  line.  I  got  to  drive  him  over,  she  says. 

AUNT  ELLEN.  Would  you  consider  him  a  very  nice  looking 
gentleman,  Hfenry? 

HENRY  [judicially].  Well,  to  me  he  looks  more  like  a  man 
that's  kind  o'  got  somep'm  layin'  heavy  on  his  mind — like. 

AUNT  ELLEN.     I  should  think  she'd  have  been  dead. 

HENRY.  No'm;  she  went  over  to  the  empty  tenant's  house 
in  the  buckboard. 

AUNT  ELLEN.  She's  a  very  remarkable  woman,  Henry. 
[She  says  this  slowly  and  with  a  kind  of  placid  emphasis,  as  if 
she  has  said  it,  to  the  same  listener,  many  times  before.] 

HENRY  [placidly].  Yes,  Miss  Ellen.  [FLORENCE  is 
heard  outside,  off  up  right.] 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  289 

FLORENCE  [off].     Henry!     Hen-er-y!     Whoa,  there! 

HENRY  [crosses  to  center].  It's  Miss  Florence;  she  went  off 
horseback  for  her  sleep.  [FLORENCE  enters  up  right.  She  is 
dressed  in  riding -clothes:  breeches,  boots,  waist,  a  short  coat, 
and  a  dark  straw  hat;  she  has  a  riding  crop  in  her  hand.  Yet 
there  is  a  daintiness  about  her.] 

FLORENCE  [as  she  enters].  Henry,  don't  you  want  to  ride 
Tim  down  to  the  barn  for  me? 

HENRY  [going  up  obediently'].     Yes'm. 

FLORENCE  [coming  down].  H'lo,  Aunt  Ellen!  [HENRY 
exits  up  right.]  Had  your  breakfast?  Where's  Mr.  Ames? 
[She  flings  herself  in  a  chair  right  of  table  left  with  one  knee 
over  its  arm.] 

AUNT  ELLEN  [frowning  at  the  posture].  I  haven't  met 
him.  Henry  tells  me  he's  resting. 

FLORENCE.  Poor  thing!  He's  a  right  natty  ole  berry, 
though,  Aunt  Ellen. 

AUNT  ELLEN  [shuddering  slightly].  Won't  you  sometime 
speak  English,  Florence? 

FLORENCE  [lightly].  None  o'  my  friends  'd  understand  me 
if  I  did.  [FLORENCE  is  always  lighter  than  she  is  rough;  and 
her  tone  of  voice  is  prettier  than  the  words  she  says.  An  elec 
tric  bell  rings  faintly  off  left.]  That's  Johnnie;  I  told  him  to 
clean  up  and  come  over  and  shoot  some  tennis. 

AUNT  ELLEN  [frowning].  When  were  you  last  in  bed, 
Florence? 

FLORENCE.  When  d'you  think  I  was?  Why,  night  before 
last.  [She  giggles]  Same  as  Aunt  Isabel! 

AUNT  ELLEN  [coldly].    We  won't  discuss — 

FLORENCE  [with  a  suppressed  chuckle].  No;  I  guess  we 
better  not ! 

AUNT  ELLEN.  But  you,  after  being  out  in  an  automobile 
all  night  with  this  young  Mr.  White — 

FLORENCE  [severely].  Hunting  Aunt  Isabel!  [She  goes 
on  at  once  with  amused  slyness.]  WThat  do  you  think  of  Aunt 
Isabel's  conduct,  Aunt  Ellen  ? 

AUNT  ELLEN  [primly].  I've  told  you  I  never  discuss  Aunt 
Isabel.  [One  of  the  double  doors,  left,  opens  and  a  middle- 
aged  woman  steps  in.  She  is  neat  and  responsible  looking; 
but  more  of  the  housekeeper  type  than  a  "  maid  "  ;  her  name  is 
MATTIE.  She  speaks  immediately.] 


290  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

MATTIE.     It's  Mr.  White. 

FLORENCE  [not  rising,  turns  her  head  and  calls  loudly  toward 
the  door].  Come  on  in,  Johnnie! 

AUNT  ELLEN  [annoyed],     Florence,  please! 

FLORENCE.  If  Aunt  Isabel  can't  reform  me,  you  can't,  Aunt 
Ellen.  [Calling  again}.  Johnnie!  Come  ahead  fn/J[  [ JOHN 
NIE  enters  left,  passing  MATTIE,  who  goes  out  left  at  once, 
closing  the  door.  JOHNNIE  wears  an  old  Norfolk  jacket,  a 
flannel  shirt,  white  flannel  trousers,  and  tennis  shoes.  He  car 
ries  a  racket  in  a  shabby  case  under  his  arm  and  has  a  cap  in 
his  hand.  He  speaks  in  a  grieved  tone  as  he  enters  J} 

JOHNNIE.  You  said  you'd  be  ready  for —  Howdy  do, 
Miss  Ellen —  [This  is  a  brief  parenthesis  to  AUNT  ELLEN, 
and  he  goes  on  immediately  to  FLORENCE.]  You  expect  to 
shoot  tennis  in  boots? 

FLORENCE  [rising'}.  Oh,  I'll  change./!  You_  pretty  near 
dead  for  sleep? 

JOHNNIE  [incredulously'].     Me?     Bet  you  are! 

FLORENCE  [carelessly"].  I'll  bet  you  ten  dollars  I  can  go 
till  day  after  to-morrow! 

JOHNNIE.     Never  close  your  eyes? 

FLORENCE.  Yes,  nor  my  mouth,  either!  [Goes  up 
center.} 

JOHNNIE  [grimly}.    I  lose! 

FLORENCE.  I'll  show  you  how  sleepy  7  am!  [She  is  at  the 
victrola  in  the  sun-room  and  as  she  speaks  she  releases  a  lively 
dance  record,  and  turns  down,  extending  her  arms.} 

AUNT  ELLEN  [crossly}.  Florence!  Do  you  have  to  dance 
all  the  time  ? 

FLORENCE  [seizin?  upon  JOHNNIE],  Absolutely!  Come 
on!  [They  begin  to  dance  a  very  modern  d<a?ice.} 

AUNT  ELLEN.  And  that  poor  gentleman  trying  to  get  some 
rest  upstairs! 

FLORENCE.  It's  time  for  the  ole  kid  to  come  down.  I  want 
to  talk  some  more  to  him! 

JOHNNIE  [as  they  go  on  dancing}.  Done  up,  was  he? 
Well,  take  men  that  age,  they  can't  do  as  much  as  if — 

FLORENCE.  No!  Think  he's  some  three-year-old?  That 
was  a  pretty  rough  trip  we  brought  him. 

JOHNNIE.  Hark!  I  believe  you'd  flirt  with  George  Wash 
ington  if  you  got  a  chance! 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  291 

FLORENCE.  Hush  up  and  get  off  my^£oot{_  [AuNT  ELLEN 
shudders.] 

JOHNNIE  [plaintive].  Your  Aunt  Isabel  was  listenin'  to 
you  the  whole  way  too!  She  didn't  look  to  me  as  if  she 
thought  much  of  your  style,  either! 

FLORENCE.  Xpan't  you  dance  without  talkin'?  What  you 
think  this  is:  a  CEaufauquaT" 

AUNT  ELLEN  [s he  has  put  on  a  pince-nez  and  looks  at  them 
sourly  over  her  shoulder}.  It  certainly  isn't  dancing,  is  it? 
[She  is  plaintively  severe.] 

FLORENCE.  I  never  could  remember,  Aunt  Ellen:  Was  it 
you  or  grandma  that  walked  a  minuet  with  Alexander  Ham 
ilton  ? 

AUNT  ELLEN  [angrily].     It  was  my  great-grandmother! 

FLORENCE.  I  guess  she'd  have  been  shocked  enough  if  she'd 
ever  seen  you  dancing  when  you  were  young? 

AUNT  ELLEN  [rising  angrily].  Shocked  at  my  dancing? 
At  the  waltz  f  The  polka!  The  schottische? 

FLORENCE.  Oh,  don't  get  so  upset!  [She  is  a  little  irri 
tated  and  speaks  flippantly,  but  she  keeps  on  dancing.} 

AUNT  ELLEN  [sharply].     Shame  on  you! 

FLORENCE  [hotly].    What  for? 

AUNT  ELLEN  [rapidly].  To  dance,  yourself,  in  that  man 
ner  and  say  anyone  would  be  shocked  at  my  dancing,  and  for 
saying  I  might  have  danced  with  Alexander  Hamilton! 

FLORENCE  [giggling].    Why?    Wasn't  he  nice? 

AUNT  ELLEN.     Shame! 

FLORENCE.  Oh,  do  sit  down !  [//  is  a  tiff,  and  they  speak 
sharply  and  quickly.] 

AUNT  ELLEN  [trembling].     Indeed,  I  shall  not! 

FLORENCE.     Stand  up,  then!    Gosh! 

AUNT  ELLEN.     I  will  retire  from  the  room!     [Going  left.} 

FLORENCE.  Oh,  /  apologize.  Golly!  [HENRY  enters  up 
right,  leaving  the  door  open.] 

HENRY  [as  he  enters].     She's  back. 

FLORENCE  [with  gloomy  scorn,  to  AUNT  ELLEN].  Now  I 
s'pose  you'll  tell  her  all  about  it! 

AUNT  ELLEN  [quickly,  but  with  over-dignity}.  I  shall 
not.  Excuse  me!  [Exits  left.] 

FLORENCE.  Oh,  my!  [She  flings  herself  in  a  chair  right: 
of  table  left.]  I  wish — 


292  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

JOHNNIE  [looking  off  up  right  and  gloomily  nodding  in  that 
direction  to  check  FLORENCE,  who  is  about  to  continue  speak 
ing].  Hark!  You  better  hush  up  'f  you  don't  want  her 
to —  [He  means:  if  FLORENCE  doesn't  want  ISABEL  to  per 
ceive  that  there's  been  a  row.  FLORENCE  checks  herself. 
JOHNNIE  goes  to  left  of  table.'} 

ISABEL  [outside •,  up  right].     Henry? 

HENRY  [right  center].  I'm  waitin*.  [ISABEL  enters 
cheerfully  up  right  in  the  sun-room.  She  wears  a  driving-coat 
over  her  dress,  dr wing- gloves,  and  a  "pretty  little  hat."  As 
she  comes  in,  her  air  is  brisk,  as  of  one  fresh  from  driving  on 
a  cool  morning,  and  she  speaks  as  she  comes  down.] 

ISABEL  [center.  Beginning  to  HENRY,  interrupting  herself 
to  greet  JOHNNIE,  and  then  reverting  to  HENRY].  Henry — 
howdy  do,  Johnnie  White — Henry,  I  want  you  to  drive  Mr. 
Ames  to  the  train. 

HENRY.     Yes'm,  you  awready  told  me. 

ISABEL.  Let  him  know  in  plenty  of  time  to  start — but — 
well,  not  too  much  time.  Not  so  that  he'll  have  to  wait  a  long 
while  at  the  station.  [With  a  significance  in  her  own  thought 
that  AMES  has  had  a  great  deal  of  station  waiting  lately.] 

HENRY.     No'm.     [Exit  up  left] 

ISABEL  [she  turns  to  FLORENCE  as  HENRY  goes  out  up 
right.  FLORENCE'S  attitude  and  look  are  of  a  brooding  sort. 
ISABEL'S  glance  rests  momentarily  upon  her,  but  she  speaks  to 
JOHNNIE],  Johnnie  White,  why  is  this  lady  so  gloomy? 
[JOHNNIE  shakes  his  head  briefly]  What's  the  matter? 
[To  FLORENCE.]  Where's  your  Aunt  Ellen?  Hasn't  she 
come  down  yet? 

FLORENCE  [with  rueful  sulkiness].    Oh,  yes;  she  was  here! 

ISABEL  [comprehending  cheerfully].  Oh,  I  see.  What 
was  it  about? 

FLORENCE.  She  didn't  like  it  because —  Why,  I  was  only 
makin'  fun  of  o/</-fashioned  dancing.  Everything  old-fashioned 
is  so  funny. 

ISABEL  [center].  Isn't  it!  I  used  to  say  that  to  my  grand 
mother.  Did  you  apologize? 

FLORENCE.     Yes.     I  did. 

ISABEL.     Did  you  say,  "  I  apologize  golly  "  ? 

JOHNNIE  [surprised].  Why,  Miss  Stuart!  How'd  you 
guess  Florence  said  that? 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  2935 

ISABEL   [back  of  FLORENCE].    When  you  live  with  'em, 
Johnnie,  you  get  to  know  their  habits.     Do  you  know  what 
she's   thinking   now?     [She   puts   her   hand   on   FLORENCE'S 
shoulder,  FLORENCE  still  being  seated.} 
~  JOHNNIE  [shaking  his  head}.     No'm;  I  certainly  don't. 

ISABEL.  She's  wondering  why  people  are  always  so  queer 
when  they  get  older. 

JOHNNIE  [with  slightly  sour  significance}.  Well,  she  might 
ask  Mr.  Ames  about  that.  He  must  be  anyway  pretty  near 
something  way  long  over  thirty  or  something,  isn't  he,  Miss 
Stuart? 

ISABEL.  Yes,  I'm  afraid  he  must  be  almost  that  near  the 
end !  But  still  I  rather  doubt  if  she  will  ask  Mr.  Ames  about 
it,  Johnnie.  No;  hardly.  [Crosses  center.  Smiling  to  him 
as  he  grins  in  rueful  comprehension.} 

FLORENCE.  Oh,  I  like  old  men.  [She  comes  out  of  her 
brooding  fit  as  she  rises.}  Don't  you  think  Mr.  Ames  is  ter 
ribly  intriguing?  [Seriously  and  quickly.} 

ISABEL.  "  Intriguing"?  No,  I  think  he  seems  honest — • 
well,  quite  honest,  at  least! 

FLORENCE.     But  he  has  such  a  distinguished  looking  face. 

ISABEL.  Well,  he  has  an  uncle  who's  distinguished ;  that  is, 
he's  always  spoken  of  as  remarkable  because  he  plays  polo  at 
sixty-six.  The  uncle,  I  mean,  Florence,  of  course. 

FLORENCE.  This  man's  a  man  that  really  interests  me.  I 
think  from  his  looks  he  has  the  power  to  think.  [Severely.] 
Very  few  people  have  the  power  to  think  in  this  world,  you 
know,  Aunt  Isabel. 

ISABEL  [back  of  table}.  Oh,  yes;  fewer  and  fewer  every 
day!  It's  quite  natural  for —  [Turning  unexpectedly  to 
JOHNNIE.]  Have  you  the  power  to  think,  Johnnie  White? 

JOHNNIE.     No'm.     You  know  what  she  means,  don't  you? 

FLORENCE  [coldly,  absently}.     Never  mind. 

ISABEL  [in  an  impressed  whisper,  to  JOHNNIE],  She's 
thinking.  [Crosses  center.} 

FLORENCE.  Aunt  Isabel,  I  really  would  like  him  to  stay 
over  a  day  or  so. 

ISABEL.  He  said  he  had  to  go  on  to  New  York  at  noon. 
I'm  afraid  he  made  quite  a  point  of  it. 

FLORENCE  [rises  and  crosses  center}.  Oh,  well,  you  know 
men  always  can  stay  if  they  want  to. 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

ISABEL.  That's  why  it's  better  not  to  urge  them;  they  may 
only  make  it  clearer  they  don't  want  to. 

FLORENCE  [at  the  door}.  Oh,  Mr.  Ames  might  change  his 
mind — later.  [Crosses  to  door,  left.] 

ISABEL.  Before  you  begin  with  that,  dear,  could  you  please 
first  go  and  apologize  to  your  Aunt  Ellen? 

FLORENCE.     Oh,  all  right.     [Moodily.] 

ISABEL  [by  the  fireplace}.     Try  it  without  a  golly! 

FLORENCE.  All  right,  I'll  go  and  kid  her  to  death.  [Exit 
left.] 

ISABEL  [turns  to  JOHNNIE,  sitting  on  sofa,  right}.  Don't 
you  seem  to  "  intrigue  "  Florence  at  all,  Johnnie? 

JOHNNIE.  No'm.  She  just  takes  a  notion.  [Crosses  to 
center.] 

ISABEL.     You  mean  she  just  gets  this  way. 

JOHNNIE.  Yes'm;  when  there's  somebody  around  she's 
fixin'  to  make  'em  get  mush  over  her.  Yow've  noticed  that, 
haven't  you,  Miss  Stuart? 

ISABEL.     I  fancy  I  may  have,  just  possibly! 

JOHNNIE.  Then  she  rubs  that  power-to-think  business 
all  over  met  because  the  faculty  found  out  I  wasn't  intellectual 
or  something,  so  I  had  to  abandon  my  college  career.  [He  is 
very  serious.} 

ISABEL  [sitting  on  the  sofa  and  concealing  a  tendency  to 
laugh}.  Come  on.  I  see  you  want  to  say  something  more  to 
me. 

JOHNNIE  [swallowing.  Sits  on  sofa  left  of  Miss  STUART], 
Yes'm.  Miss  Stuart,  you're  a  woman  that's  had  a  good  many 
men  go  mush  over  you;  so  with  your  experience,  why,  the 
truth  is,  I  may  not  have  all  the  brains  in  the  world,  but  she 
hasn't,  either,  but  she  gets  these  fits  when  she  thinks  she  has; 
and  what  I  want  to  say  is  simply:  why,  you  know  how  it  is, 
when  there's  some  new  man  around,  she  treats  me  more  like 
some  door-mat  than  a  person. 

ISABEL.     I  understand  you  perfectly,  Johnnie.     Go  ahead. 

JOHNNIE.  I  just  wanted  to  say  so  because  you've  had 
prob'ly  more  experience  of  life  than  I've  had,  no  doubt. 

ISABEL.  How  long  do  you  expect  to  feel  this  way  about 
her,  Johnnie? 

JOHNNIE  [swallowing].  Well,  if  everything  turns  out  all 
right — though  it  don't  look  so  much  like  it  right  now,  but  if 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  295 

it  does,  and  she  finds  out  I'm  her — her — well,  her  real  mate, 
as  it  were,  why,  I  expect  to  go  on  and  on  with  her — and  on 
and  on — and  on  and —  [He  seems  to  be  going  on,  though 
slowing  down.] 

ISABEL.  "  On  and  on  and  on  " — until  you're  just  any  age — 
oh,  twenty-eight  or  even  twenty-nine,  maybe? 

JOHNNIE.     Yes'm.     Indefinitely. 

ISABEL.  Suppose  you  were — past  thirty,  Johnnie.  Suppose, 
like  Mr.  Ames,  you  were  even — well,  whatever  age  we'll  say 
Mr.  Ames  is. 

JOHNNIE  [slightly  amused  and  incredulous].  What  age— 
me?  I  guess  prob'ly  I'd  be  sittin'  around  somewhere,  if  I  was 
alive. 

ISABEL.  But  you'd  still  like  Florence  to  be  about  nineteen, 
wouldn't  you? 

JOHNNIE.  Well,  about  the  way  she  looks  now,  yes'm. 
That's  a  good  deal  why  I  like  her:  the  way  she  looks. 

ISABEL  [smiling].     It  isn't  fair,  is  it? 

JOHNNIE.     Ma'am? 

ISABEL.  You  see,  when  you're  twenty  you  like  us  to  be 
nineteen,  and  when  you're  fifty  you're  apt  to  like  us  to  be 
nineteen!  Well,  we  can't  manage  it,  you  see!  We  can't  stay 
nineteen,  much  as  we  want  to  please  you! 

JOHNNIE  [smiles].  Oh,  well,  I  guess  I'd  feel  just  the 
same  about  Florence  if  she  was  a  thousand. 

ISABEL  [looking  at  him  quickly].  Would  you?  If  she  were 
a  thousand? 

JOHNNIE  [laughing  a  little  ruefully}.  I  guess  I  would! 
[As  if  he'd  prob'ly  have  to.] 

ISABEL.    You  think  so? 

JOHNNIE  [becoming  serious].  Well,  if  I  did,  I  guess  then 
she'd  know  what  sort  of  a  man  I  am. 

ISABEL  [thoughtfully  and  rather  slowly].  Yes;  she  ought 
to! 

JOHNNIE  [going  on].  And  she'd  see  how  I  really  feel  about 
her. 

ISABEL  [smiling  quickly].  Yes;  so  she  would!  It's  quite 
an  idea!  [Rises.] 

JOHNNIE  [rises].  'Course  I  don't  think  anything'll  come  o' 
the  way  she  acts  over  this  Mr.  Ames.  For  one  thing,  I  b'lieve 
he'd  have  too  much  sense. 


296  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

ISABEL.     Do  you  ?     You  can  never  be  sure  of  that,  Johnnie  I 

JOHNNIE.  Well,  she  begged  him  a  lot  to  stay  over  till  to 
morrow  and  he  said  he  couldn't;  just  like  he  did  when  you 
asked  him,  Miss  Stuart. 

ISABEL.  Yes,  that  looks  intelligent  of  him,  if  he  sticks  to 
it  and  goes. 

JOHNNIE.  And,  anyhow,  he  only  said  one  personal  thing  to 
her  all  the  time,  and  it  was  kind  of  a  joke. 

ISABEL  [quickly].     He  did  say  a  personal  thing  to  her? 

JOHNNIE.  It  was  when  you  went  to  hurry  the  cook  with 
breakfast.  Mr.  Ames  asked  Florence — oh,  well,  it  wasn't  so 
frightful  "  personal." 

ISABEL.     What  was  it,  Johnnie? 

JOHNNIE.  Well,  she  said  she  s'posed  she'd  be  as  old  as  her 
grandfather  before  she  got  any  breakfast  and  he  asked  her  if 
she  knew  how  old  her  grandfather  was. 

ISABEL.  He  did?  He  asked  her  that?  What  did  she  tell 
him? 

JOHNNIE.  She  didn't  know.  [Anxiously.]  Do  you  think 
that  was  pretty  personal?  I  don't  see — 

ISABEL  [crosses  center].  Why,  yes;  I  believe  I  do.  I  be 
lieve  I  think  it  was  quite  "  personal  "  indeed — asking  her  how 
pld  her  grandfather  was!  [MATTIE  enters,  left.] 

ISABEL  [quickly  on  her  entrance].    What  is  it? 

MATTIE.  The  gentleman.  I  heard  him  stirrin'  round ;  you 
said  to  let  you  know. 

ISABEL  [rather  eagerly].     Yes? 

MATTIE.     I  think  he's  comin'  down. 

ISABEL  [going  toward  her  quickly].  Mattie,  it  seems  to 
me  you  told  me  once  you  didn't  think  this  was  a  becoming  hat. 

MATTIE.  No'm.  You  ast  me,  and  I  says  I  never  could  like 
it  on  you,  ma'am. 

ISABEL.  Good  gracious!  You  might  be  right!  [She  hur 
ries  away  up  through  the  sun-room  and  off  up  left.] 

JOHNNIE.  Didn't  hear  Miss  Florence  stirrin'  around  or 
anything,  did  you? 

MATTIE  [with  a  glance  toward  where  ISABEL  departed]. 
Yes,  sir.  She's  changin'  her  things — again — too!  [Going  to 
exit  left.] 

JOHNNIE  [rather  sharply  as  she  opens  the  door].     Will  you 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  297 

ask  her  how  long  she  thinks  I —  [He  is  checked  by  an  approach 
seen  through  the  open  door;  mutters]  oh!  [and  turns  right. 
AMES  enters  right,  passing  MATTIE,  who  waits  for  him  to 
pass;  then  exit  right.  AMES  has  changed  his  clothes  for  tweeds; 
he  looks  freshened  but  preoccupied.'} 

AMES  [in  greeting].  Ah — Mr.  White?  Haven't  you  been 
to  bed  at  all? 

JOHNNIE  [smiling].  No.  J'y°ii  get  rested  up  some? 
[They  shake  hands] 

AMES  [crossing  to  the  fire,  right].  Oh,  yes;  quite  a  little. 
I  suppose  our  two — ah — comrades — aren't  down  yet.  Miss 
Stuart  must  be  pretty  much  exhausted,  I'm  afraid. 

JOHNNIE.  She  doesn't  act  like  it.  Right  after  you  went 
up  to  bed  she  drove  off  to  one  of  her  farms  on  business.  [Sits 
right  of  table  left] 

AMES.     She  did? 

JOHNNIE  [casually;  not  boasting  for  her].  Drivin'  herself 
in  a  buckboard. 

AMES.    Why,  I  declare! 

JOHNNIE.  Oh,  Miss  Stuart's  considered  a  pretty  remarka 
ble  woman,  you  know. 

AMES  [struck  by  this,  frowns  somewhat  thoughtfully].  She 
is.  She's  considered — remarkable? 

JOHNNIE  [shaking  his  head,  seriously].  Yes,  indeed! 
She's  the  most  remarkable  of  her  family. 

AMES  [thoughtful].  I  feel  myself  rather  at  a  loss;  I  seem 
to  be  here  so — so  unexpectedly,  as  it  were — and  such  a — a 
stranger.  I'm  rather — ah — confused  about  the  family.  Miss 
Stuart's  father  and  mother,  I  take  it,  aren't  living? 

JOHNNIE.     Golly,  no!     I  dunno  when  they  died! 

AMES  [set  back  a  little].  A  considerable  time  ago,  I  sup 
pose. 

JOHNNIE.    Well,  yes  I    Must  'a'  been! 

AMES  [rather  wistfully,  yet  trying  to  sound  careless  and 
casual].  You  don't  remember  them,  I  take  it. 

JOHNNIE  [carelessly].     Me?    Golly,  no! 

AMES.     Ah — the  present  family,  then — 

JOHNNIE.  It's  just  Miss  Stuart  and  Miss  Ellen  Stuart  and 
Florence. 

AMES.     Miss  Ellen  Stuart  I  haven't  met.     [Sits  on  sofa.] 


298  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

JOHNNIE.     She's  Florence's  aunt. 

AMES.     Her  aunt? 

JOHNNIE.  Yes,  I  always  get  mixed  up  on  relations,  too. 
[He  sits  on  the  small  of  his  back,  crossing  his  legs;  and  decides 
to  try  a  wicked  shot.}  I  don't  know  how  old  my  grandfather 
was  when  he  died,  any  more'n  Florence  did  hers! 

AMES  [unconscious  of  the  effort  just  made}.  It  seems  to 
me  that  last  night  Miss  Stuart  spoke  of  two  orphan  nieces  she 
was  bringing  up. 

JOHNNIE.  Bringin'  up?  Florence  is  one,  but  Miss  Stuart 
couldn't  'a'  meant  she  was  bringin'  Miss  Ellen  up.  She's 
about  a  hundred — or  a  hundred  and  ten,  maybe!  Anyhow, 
she  must  be  around  sixty. 

AMES.  I  must  have  been  mistaken.  Then  there  are  just 
these  three  ladies  in  the  family. 

JOHNNIE.     Three's  all.     They  do  need  a  man  around. 

AMES.  Uh — yes.  It  would — ah — seem  so.  [They  look  at 
'each  other  with  some  coldness.  FLORENCE  is  heard  singing  off 
left.} 

JOHNNIE.  This  un  comin'  needs  more'n  one  the  way  she 
acts — lately!  [FLORENCE  enters,  left,  singing  till  she  gets  into 
the  room,  then  she  stops  suddenly.  She  wears  a  most  becoming 
tennis  costume,  but  accompanies  it  with  white  high-heeled  slip 
pers.  She  has  a  pair  of  white  tennis  shoes  in  one  hand,  and  a 
racquet  and  a  net  bag  of  tennis  balls  in  the  other.  There  are 
five  or  six  balls,  not  all  new.  AMES  rises  and  goes  a  little  to 
right.} 

FLORENCE  [crosses  to  center,  back  of  table.  To  AMES]. 
Oh!  You're  here,  too! 

JOHNNIE  [muttering  ironically,  not  moving}.  So'm  I  here, 
too! 

AMES  [gallantly}.  I'm  glad  you  didn't  know  it,  if  that's 
why  you  kept  on  singing. 

FLORENCE  [going  over  to  him}.  I  told  you  in  the  car  you 
were  a  quick  worker!  [She  doesn't  smile.}  I've  taken  a 
frightful  fancy  to  you! 

JOHNNIE  [before  AMES  can  speak}.  One  of  the  mail 
service  aviators  had  to  land  in  their  back  meadow  here,  last 
month.  She  pulled  that  on  him  before  his  wheels  touched 
ground. 

FLORENCE.     I  didn't! 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  299 

JOHNNIE  [placidly  stubborn].  You  did.  You  had  to  holler 
to  make  him  hear  it! 

FLORENCE  [turning  seriously  to  AMES  for  sympathy]^ 
These  boys,  nowadays,  they  think  life's  nothing  but  jazz.  la 
this  life  people  meet  a  girl,  but  so  often  they  don't  see  she 
prob'ly  has  thoughts  other  people  couldn't  think!  I  have  to 
lead  two  lives:  one  outdoors  with  mere  adolescents,  but  the 
other:  that's  a  life  apart.  You  understand  what  I  mean,  don't 
you? 

AMES  [smiling'].     I  think  so. 

FLORENCE.  I  thought  you  would.  That's  why  you  in 
trigue  me  so.  [Softly.]  You're  a  great  kid !  [She  slaps  him 
on  arm.] 

JOHNNIE.     Oh,  listen!     [FLORENCE  glances  at  him.] 

FLORENCE.  Mr.  Ames,  don't  you  believe  that  very  few 
people  in  this  life  have  the  power  to  really  think? 

JOHNNIE  [sliding  to  the  floor  from  his  chair].  Oo-ooh, 
Mike! 

FLORENCE  [annoyed,  turning].  Cut  the  rough  stuff,  you 
caterpillar.  [Her  tone  is  severe  but  quiet.] 

JOHNNIE  [rising  to  his  knees  and  seeming  to  paddle  with  his 
racquet  at  the  tennis  shoes  in  her  hand].  You  goin'  to  wear 
four  shoes  at  the  same  time,  centipede? 

FLORENCE  [sitting].  I  never  can  bear  to  put  flat  shoes  on 
till  the  last  minute.  And  then —  [She  removes  one  slipper.] 
It's  so  troublesome  gettin  'em  on — 

AMES.     May  I  help  you? 

FLORENCE.     Oh,  if  you  would — 

JOHNNIE  [embittered,  up  center].  Oh!  That's  why  you 
brought  'em!  I  see! 

FLORENCE  [giving  him  a  cold  quick  glance,  but  speaking  to 
AMES.  He  kneels  before  her].  It's  outrageous  of  me  to  let 
you  take  so  much  trouble!  [Then  leaning  toward  him,  she 
speaks  softly.] 

JOHNNIE.  Oh,  my!  [He  goes  out  of  the  picture,  stepping 
out  up  right.] 

FLORENCE  [softly].  Mr.  Ames,  please  stay  over  till  to 
morrow.  7  ask  you  to. 

AMES.  You're  very  kind.  I  couldn't  let  your  aunt  think 
I'm  so  vacillating.  You  see,  I  told  her  I  had  to  be  in  New 
York  this  evening. 


300  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

FLORENCE.  But  you  just  said  you  had  to  go,  didn't  you? — 
because  you  wanted  to  be  polite  about  making  an  unexpected 
visit  ? 

AMES  [laughing].  Yes;  something  like  that.  But  after 
telling  your  aunt  that  I  couldn't  stay — 

FLORENCE.     But  aren't  there  any  reasons  you'd  like  to  stay? 

AMES  [thoughtfully].    Yes,  there  are. 

FLORENCE.  Then  I'll  fix  it  for  you.  I'll  say  you  sent  a 
wire  to  New  York  letting  'em  know  you  reached  here,  and  I'll 
write  a  message  on  one  of  our  telegraph  blanks  to  you.  It'll 
be  the  answer  from  New  York  telling  you  there  isn't  any  reason 
for  you  to  leave.  [She  is  pleased  with  her  idea.] 

AMES  [laughing,  but  a  little  nervous  over  her  idea].  Oh, 
no! 

FLORENCE.  I  will!  I'll  have  a  man  bring  it  in.  Don't 
you  spoil  it. 

AMES.     I  couldn't — 

FLORENCE.  Yes,  you  could!  And  when  my  telegram 
comes,  if  you  give  me  away —  [She  is  interrupted  by  JOHN 
NIE'S  return.  JOHNNIE  has  been  just  beyond  the  threshold 
up  right,  looking  off  out  doors,  and  now  comes  in  and  down 
a  few  steps.] 

JOHNNIE.     I  got  it! 

FLORENCE  [she  checks  AMES,  who  is  about  to  expound  his 
protest].  Hush!  [To  JOHNNIE.]  You  got  what? 

JOHNNIE.  Got  a  wish  I  just  made.  [He  points  to  door 
tip  left,  then  claps  his  hand  over  his  mouth  as  if  undesirous  the 
lady  entering  should  hear  him;  he  is  facing  that  way.  ISABEL 
enters  up  left  in  the  sun-room.  She  has  taken  off  her  hat 
and  coat;  is  in  a  very  pretty  morning  dress,  and  carries  some 
"work"  in  her  hand;  a  "work  bag!'  She  comes  in  looking 
at  JOHNNIE,  who  has  his  hand  over  his  mouth] 

ISABEL.  What's  the  matter,  Johnnie  White?  [He  jerks 
his  head  toward  AMES  and  FLORENCE,  who  are  down  right 
center.  For  an  instant  ISABEL  lets  it  be  seen  that  she  is  the 
least  bit  taken  aback.]  Oh!  [She  immediately  smiles,  as  if 
pleased]  Oh!  [She  comes  down  as  she  speaks]  Your  shoes 
are  too — large  again,  dear?  [The  slightest  check  before 
"large."] 

AMES  [looking  up  at  ISABEL  with  a  little  embarrassment]. 
Ah — she — I  was  helping  her  to — ah — change. 


l\ 

THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  301 

ISABEL  [smiling'].    You  were? 

AMES.  That  is,  I  am.  She  mentioned  some  difficulty  in — 
ah — doing  it  herself,  and  I — 

ISABEL  [sunnily].  I  should  think  you  would!  Who 
wouldn't?  And  who  wouldn't  make  it  as  long  as  possible, 
too!  [She  turns  to  a  chair,  left  center.'] 

AMES  [ritufff].  It's — ah — done.  [As  he  has  taken  off 
FLORENCE'S  second  slipper  he  has  unconsciously  put  it  under 
his  arm,  where  it  still  is] 

ISABEL.     Is  it?    Already? 

JOHNNIE  [sharply,  to  FLORENCE],     C'm  on,  here! 

FLORENCE.     All  right,  I'm  coming;  what's  the  hurry? 

JOHNNIE  [FLORENCE  goes  up  as  he  speaks.  JOHNNIE  has 
gone  down  to  the  sofa  she  has  occupied,  and  has  picked  up  the 
bag  of  tennis  balls.  He  immediately  goes  up,  after  FLORENCE. 
He  calls  out.']  Go  ahead !  [All  in  a  breath.']  Betcha  dollar 
I  beat  you  t'  the  tennis  court!  [Both  rush  for  the  door  up 
right.  He  swings  her  back  up  right.  FLORENCE  strikes  at 
him  with  her  racket] 

FLORENCE  [giggling  as  she  runs  after  him~\.  No  fair,  you 
got  a  start.  [ISABEL  is  looking  at  AMES,  w ho  is  standing,  still 
in  some  embarrassment,  near  the  fireplace,  unconscious  of  the 
slipper  under  his  arm;  he  is  looking  up  at  the  departing  couple. 
The  other  slipper  is  on  the  seat  of  FLORENCE'S  chair.] 

ISABEL.  Aren't  they  extraordinary,  Mr.  Ames?  [AMES 
turns.]  Aren't  they  extraordinary,  these  young  things!  Not 
tidy,  though.  She's  left  her  slippers  on  the  sofa.  [Glancing 
at  the  slipper,  then  again  at  him;  she  begins  to  sew  some  lace 
into  cambric] 

AMES  [still  embarrassed  and  not  catching  this].  It  seems 
to  me  you're  rather  extraordinary  yourself,  my  dear — [he 
pauses  an  instant,  then  hastily  adds] — lady.  [So  that  his 
phrase  is  "  my  dear  lady!1] 

ISABEL  [as  if  a  little  suspiciously].  I?  Do  you  think  so? 
In  what  way? 

AMES.  Sleeping  a  few  hours  on  a  wooden  bench,  motoring 
forty  miles  of  mud  hills,  then  driving  off  in  a  buckboard  in 
stead  of  collapsing! 

ISABEL  [looking  at  him].  Oh,  a  country  life  keeps  people 
quite  robust.  It's — "remarkable!"  [Then  looking  at  her 
work.]  As  I  said,  though.  I'm  afraid  Florence  is  untidy, 


302  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

sometimes.  [With  a  little  gesture  toward  the  slipper, ]  You 
see  where  she's  left  that  pair  of  slippers. 

AMES  [glancing  at  it  absently].  Pair?  Ah — there's  only 
one. 

ISABEL  [bending  her  head  over  her  work] .  So  ?  Could  you 
find  the  other?  [Sits  right  of  table  left.] 

AMES.  Oh,  certainly.  [He  glances  absently  about,  then 
realizes,  with  a  start,  that  the  slipper  is  under  his  arm;  she 
seems  oblivious  of  everything  except  her  lace-making.  He 
hastily  puts  the  slipper  under  the  chair;  straightens  up  and 
looks  at  her  again.  She  seems  as  before.  He  stoops,  look' 
ing  about.]  Ah — I  think  it's  under  the —  Oh,  yes.  Here 
it  is.  [He  puts  it  with  the  other  one  and  comes  to 
center.] 

ISABEL.    Will  you  set  them  on  the  hearth,  please? 

AMES.     Certainly. 

ISABEL  [with  a  matter-of-fact  amiability'].  Then  it'll  be 
easy  to  find  them  if  she  comes  back  soon  to  have  them  put  on 
again. 

AMES.  Oh,  ye —  [He  begins  to  say  "  Oh,  yes,"  but  checks 
himself  uncomfortably.  He  places  shoes  at  fireplace,  then  goes 
to  right  center — and  is  conscious  of  them  as  rather  damnatory; 
and  a  pause  follows  in  which  he  glances  back  and  down  at 
them  twice.] 

ISABEL.  I'm  sorry  you  felt  you  couldn't  stay  over  till  to 
morrow,  but  since  you  insisted  you  couldn't —  [Inquiringly, 
as  if  giving  him  a  chance  to  alter  his  mind.] 

AMES.     I — I'm  afraid  I  ought  to  get  back. 

ISABEL  [with  a  submissive  nod,  regretting].  Very  well. 
I've  arranged  for  you  to  go. 

AMES.  Ah — thank  you.  [Moving  toward  her.]  Ah — 
Is  that  lace  you  are  making? 

ISABEL.     Do  you  like  it? 

AMES  [putting  on  a  pair  of  glasses,  rather  hastily  looking  at 
the  lace  and,  as  hastily,  slipping  the  glasses  back  into  his  waist 
coat  pocket  again  as  he  speaks].  It's  very  lovely — yes.  You 
must  have  remarkable  eyes  to  do  that. 

ISABEL  [after  a  look  at  him].  Yes,  my  eyes  are  quite  good. 
[Using  "quite"  to  mean  "rather"  as  elderly  people  speak  of 
pleasant  faculties  still  remaining.] 

AMES.     Is  it  a — what  they  call  a  doyley? 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  303 

ISABEL  [glancing  at  him  thoughtfully].  I  wonder  if  I 
oughtn't  to  make  a  little — cap — of  it. 

AMES  [perplexed].     A  cap? 

ISABEL.  Don't  you  think  it's  a  pretty  fashion — a  lace  cap 
on  the  head? 

AMES.    You  mean  like  the  Breton  peasant  women? 

ISABEL.     No;  I  was  thinking  of  our  grandmothers 

AMES.    But — ah — 

ISABEL  [letting  it  touch  her  hair  a  moment}.  Would  you 
— like  me  in  it?  [Her  tone  is  entirely  "natural/'  as  if  she 
considered  the  possibility  seriously.] 

AMES  [trying  not  to  be  at  all  flustered].  Of  course  I  should 
• — like  you — in  anything. 

ISABEL.    Are  you  sure  you  would? 

AMES.     Why,  how  can  you  ask  me? 

ISABEL  [working].     As  sure  as  you  were  last  night? 

AMES.    Yes,  indeed. 

ISABEL.     And  you  would  like  me  in  a  cap? 

AMES.     Well,  wouldn't  it  seem  a  little — 

ISABEL.  Do  you  mean  you  think  it  would  seem  a  little — 
premature? 

AMES.  Decidedly,  I —  [Breathlessly  correcting  himself.] 
Of  course  it  would.  I  meant —  [Goes  back  of  table  to  left.] 

ISABEL.    You  mustn't  flatter  me  too  much. 

AMES   [with  almost  plaintive  inquiry],     "Flatter"  you? 

ISABEL  [smiling].  I'll  keep  off  the  cap  as  long  as  I  can. 
Really,  there's  no  excuse  for  caps  now.  I  suppose  women  used 
to  wear  'em  because  in  those  days  there  were  so  few  supplies. 

AMES  [blankly].     Supplies? 

ISABEL.  Yes — like  imports  from  Paris.  And,  besides,  they 
didn't  approve  of  'em,  poor  things! 

AMES.     Pardon  me.    Who  didn't  approve  of  what? 

ISABEL.  Our  grandmothers  didn't  approve  of  accomplishing 
marvels  with  cosmetics.  You  know  the  miracles  they  do  to 
faces  nowadays. 

AMES.     Miracles?     [Sits  left  of  table.] 

ISABEL.  It's— remarkable !  No;  there's  no  excuse  for  a 
woman  to  wear  a  cap  these  days — not  till  she  has  to  just  abso 
lutely  give  up!  [Then  at  her  work.]  Don't  you  think  so? 

AMES.    Oh — oh,  yes! 

ISABEL.    Oh,  it's  just  struck  me—     [Rues.]     I  ought  to  be 


304  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

entertaining  you,  oughtn't  I?  But  we  haven't  any  family 
photograph  album. 

AMES.     What  a  lucky  family! 

ISABEL.  I  could  show  you  some  daguerreotypes,  though, 
Yes — {rising  suddenly  upon  a  thought] — you  ought  to  see  some 
of  our  heirlooms.  [She  gives  him  a  fleeting  faint  smile,  and 
leaving  her  work  on  the  table,  left  center,  goes  to  the  closed 
cabinet  against  the  wall  up  right;  opens  the  doors,  and  brings 
forth  an  old  mahogany  case.  She  brings  this  down  to  the 
table,  left  center,  opens  it,  takes  out  a  folding  daguerreo 
type.'] 

AMES  {rather  surprised].     Daguerreotypes? 

ISABEL  [stands  back  of  table].  Yes.  We  don't  show  them 
to  every  visitor,  of  course.  Sit  down.  [She  hands  him  the 
daguerreotype.]  There.  You  like  my  father  ? 

AMES  [rather  touched,  yet  rather  apprehensive].  Is  that 
your  father?  He  must  have  been  a  very  fine-looking  man. 
Is  that  a — a  stock  he's  wearing? 

ISABEL.  Yes.  I  did  think  stocks  were  so  becoming,  didn't 
you?  [Handing  him  another  daguerreotype.]  That's  my 
Aunt  Margaret,  father's  sister,  at  ninety-one.  We  all  live 
very  long  on  my  father's  side. 

AMES.     Ah — very  intelligent  face. 

ISABEL.  Daguerreotypes  have  a  charm,  haven't  they?  I 
wonder  people  stopped  taking  them. 

AMES  [becoming  more  preoccupied].  I  don't  think  I  ever 
saw  any  daguerreotypes  taken  much  after  the  Civil  War. 

ISABEL.  No;  I  don't  think  I  have,  either.  [Handing  him 
another.']  That's  my  Uncle  Charles,  in  his  uniform.  He  was 
a  colonel. 

AMES.     In  the — Civil  War? 

ISABEL.     Oh,  no,  in  the  Mexican  War. 

AMES  [more  disturbed,  but  concealing  it  fairly  welt].  Ah — 
he  must  have  been  a  very  fine-looking  man. 

ISABEL.  Yes,  indeed!  [She  smiles  as  she  hands  him  an 
other.]  Here's  one  of  a  little  girl — that  is,  a  young  girl. 
Does  anything  about  her  strike  you  as — familiar? 

AMES  [looking  at  her,  not  at  the  daguerreotype,  and  trying 
to  conceal  a  foreboding].  Familiar? 

ISABEL.    Yes.     See  if  you  don't  guess  who  it  is. 

AMES   {vaguely}.     "Who  is  it?"     {He  looks  at  it;  then 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  305 

suddenly  looks  closer;  starts  slightly,  draws  his  head  back  from 
it,  staring  incredulously.] 

ISABEL.     Can't  you  guess  who  it  is? 

AMES     [huskily].     Why,     it    cant —     [He     looks    appre 
hensively  to  her  and  back  again  with  painfully  growing  con 
viction] 
^   ISABEL.    Why  can't  it? 

AMES.     Isn't  it  your — mother? 

ISABEL  [in  a  tone  that  smilingly  chides  him  for  being  so 
slow] .  No-o — 

AMES  [with  some  plaintiveness].  Why,  there  weren't  any 
taken  after — why,  it  couldn't  be — 

ISABEL  [with  a  little  archness].     Oh,  but  this  girl — you  see, 
,  she  was  only  a  child,  really. 

AMES  [feebly  trying  to  be  hearty].  Oh,  yes;  that's  all  she 
was.  I  see.  She  wasn't — 

ISABEL  [sunnily].  No.  Not  over  sixteen  or  seventeen,  no. 
Don't  you  see  any  resemblance? 

AMES  [with  a  slight  struggle].  Well,  it's  charming  enough 
to — 

ISABEL.     It's  a  sister  of  mine. 

AMES.     It  is?    Your  sister? 

ISABEL  [musingly].  Yes,  she  was  quite  a  lot  older  than  I 
am  and  married  a  missionary  and  they  were  lost  in  a  typhoon. 

AMES.     Oh — I'm  sorry. 

ISABEL  [reassuringly].  Oh,  it  was  quite  a  time  ago.  [She 
smiles  and  puts  the  pictures  back  in  the  box.]  There!  I  just 
wanted  to  see  if  you'd  see  the  resemblance:  I  won't  put  you 
through  all  the  others.  [She  takes  up  her  work  and  sits  again 
as  she  speaks.] 

AMES  [huskily].  Thank  you!  [Then  hurriedly]  Thank 
you  for  showing  'em  to  me!  [He  rises,  wipes  his  forehead 
hastily f  and  moves  toward  the  fireplace,  taking  out  his  cigarette 
case]  Thank  you.  May  I  smoke  here?  [She  nods.]  I — 
ah — I — ah —  [Crosses  to  console  table f  right  center.  Lights 
cigarette] 

ISABEL  [cheerfully  and  working].  Daguerreotypes  and 
things  like  that  bring  back  such  dear  old  times  to  us,  don't 
they? 

AMES  [unguardedly].  I  suppose  they —  [Hastily]  They 
doj  of  course!  [He  takes  out  two  cigarettes.]  Yes,  they  do 


306  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

bring  them  back.  [She  gives  him  a  glance,  and  bends  over  her 
work.  Seated  right  of  table  left.'] 

ISABEL.  "Where  are  the  snows  of  yesteryear?"  Yes,  but 
where  are  the  yesteryears  themselves?  "The  wind  has  blown 
them  all  away !  "  Do  you  remember  when  all  the  young  men 
made  "  New  Year's  Calls  "  and  all  the  girls  and  their  mothers 
kept  "  Open  House  " — those  dear  jolly  old  times? 

AMES.     Oh,  yes,  indeed.     I've  heard  they — 

ISABEL.  Even  politics  seemed  simpler  then.  It  was  easier 
when  we  let  men  do  all  that  for  us,  though  they  did  get  so 
many  things  wrong,  poor  things! 

AMES.     Oh,  I  don't  know ;  we  elected  Roosevelt,  and — 

ISABEL  [with  a  spiritedness,  as  of  patriotic  indignation}. 
Yes,  but  if  women  had  voted  when  Mr.  Tilden  ran  against 
Hayes — and — Wheeler,  you  surely  don't  believe  there'd  have 
been  all  that  excitement  over  the  election,  do  you? 

AMES.     I — I — don't — 

ISABEL  [earnestly].    You  know  that  was  a  terrible  thing. 

AMES.     About  Tilden  and  Hayes — and — Wheeler? 

ISABEL.     Don't  you  think  it  was? 

AMES.  Yes,  I  suppose  it —  [He  does  not  finish  but  hastily 
substitutes:]  Oh,  yes;  it  was,  of  course. 

ISABEL.  My  poor  father  used  to  get  excited  over  that  to 
the  day  of  his  death! 

AMES   [relieved].     Oh,  your  father  did!     [Crosses  right.] 

ISABEL.  Well,  I  thought  it  was  wrong,  too.  [He  stares 
at  her,  again  perplexed;  she  sews] 

AMES.    You  ah — 

ISABEL  [casually'}.    What? 

AMES  [apologetically].  Nothing.  That  is,  I  had  nothing 
in  mind  to  say.  [Goes  up  right.] 

ISABEL  [musing,  smiling].  I  suppose  my  father  felt  it  so 
much  because  he  knew  Mr.  Tilden.  7  never  met  him.  [As 
if  she  had  met  others  like  him]  But  I  should  like  to  see  Mr. 
Cleveland's  expression  if  he  could  see  women  voting !  Or  Gen 
eral  Harrison's! 

AMES.  General  Harrison's  expression?  Do  you  mean 
Harrison  who  was  President — in — ah — eighteen — ah —  [Goes 
to  right  center  back  of  sofa] 

ISABEL.  Yes;  President  Benjamin  Harrison.  Good  gra 
cious!  I  didn't  mean  his  grandfather,  President  William 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  307 

Henry  Harrison,  who  was  President  in  eighteen-forty  or  some 
thing! 

AMES  [hastily,  laughing  feebly].  No,  no.  I  knew  you 
didn't  mean  him/ 

ISABEL.  Well,  no!  [She  sews,  and  takes  up  the  theme  as 
if  musing  absently. ]  Most  of  them  used  to  be  Generals  before 
they  ran  for  President,  didn't  they? 

AMES.     You  mean  like  General  Harrison? 

ISABEL.    Yes.     General  Harrison,  General  Garfield— 

AMES.    Oh — yes. 

ISABEL.    And  most  of  all,  General  Grant. 

AMES  [feebly'].     Yes,  General  Grant. 

ISABEL  [laughing  absently  as  she  sews].  We'd  hardly  re 
member  him — of  course.  [She  looks  up  at  him  as  if  disquieted 
by  a  thought,  though  she  smiles  nervously.]  You — you  never 
did  see  him,  did  you?  [As  if  diplomatically  getting  at  his 
age.] 

AMES.    General  Grant?     No. 

ISABEL  [as  if  relieved,  smiling  a  little,  as  if  at  an  absurdity 
as  she  looks  back  at  her  work].  Of  course  I  supposed  not. 

AMES.  No.  I  never  did.  [She  looks  up  at  him  innocently, 
carelessly,  then  seems  to  become  aware  of  something  unusual  in 
his  look  at  her.] 

ISABEL.     What  is  it? 

AMES.     I — ah — nothing! 

ISABEL.  Oh,  yes;  I  can  tell:  You're  thinking  about  some 
thing  that  bothers  you.  At  least  you  looked  as  if  you  were 
puzzling  about  something.  Weren't  you? 

AMES  [hurriedly'].     Indeed,  I  wasn't;  not  at  all! 

ISABEL.     I'm  sure  you  are  wondering  about  something. 

AMES.  No.  I'm  not.  Not  about  anything  at  all.  [Crosses 
right  to  front  of  sofa.] 

ISABEL.  Yes,  but  you  are.  I  wonder  if  I  know  what 
you're  wondering  about. 

AMES  [too  quickly.  Sits  on  sofa].  No,  you  don't.  That 
is,  I  meant  to  say  you  don't,  because  I'm  not,  so  you  couldn't. 

ISABEL.     But  I  think  I  do. 

AMES.  Indeed,  you're  mistaken.  Pm  not  wondering  about 
anything.  Not  about  anything*. 

ISABEL.     Aren't  you  even  wondering  anything — about  me? 

AMES.     No,  no;  certainly  not.     [Rises.]     Nothing  at  all. 


3o8  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

That  is,  I'm  not  wondering.  Of  course  I'm  thinking  about 
you — 

ISABEL  [quickly}.    What  are  you  thinking  about  me? 

AMES.     Nothing.     Nothing  at  all. 

ISABEL  [nodding],  I  see.  You're  thinking  about  me  but 
you  aren't  thinking  anything  in  particular  about  me. 

AMES.    Yes.     No! 

ISABEL.     I  understand  perfectly. 

AMES.     No,  but  you  don't. 

ISABEL.     Yes.     You  meant  Yes  and  no.     Didn't  you? 

AMES.     Well,  I —     [Crosses  back  of  table  to  left.} 

ISABEL.  Of  course  you  did.  That  clears  it  all  up,  you 
see;  "yes  and  no."  [Smiling*]  I'm  glad  you  made  it  so 
plain. 

AMES  [thoroughly  confused  and  rather  dismayed].  But 
what?  What  was  it  I  made  plain? 

ISABEL.  What  you  were  thinking  about  me.  It's  perfectly 
natural  you  would  wonder  a  little  about  that,  too. 

AMES.     But  I  didn't.     I  assure  you  I  didn't  wonder — 

ISABEL  [interrupting].  Now  could  you  help  wondering 
about  what  you're  wondering  about? 

AMES.     But  I'm  not!     Indeed  I'm  not! 

ISABEL  [laughing].  Why,  of  course  you  are!  You're  won 
dering  just  how  romantic  I  am.  That's  what  you're  won 
dering! 

AMES  [much  relieved.  Sits].  Oh!  Oh,  well,  perhaps  I 
was  wondering  a  little  about  that!  Yes,  I — I  admit  it.  You 
are  romantic,  you  say? 

ISABEL.     I  was  when  I  was  a  child. 

AMES  [with  some  eagerness].  What  were  you  romantic 
about  then? 

ISABEL.    When  I  was  a  child? 

AMES.  Yes.  What  did  you  find  to  be  romantic  about? 
What — uh — in  a  general  way,  I  mean. 

ISABEL  [lightly  thoughtful].  Oh — well,  I  suppose  the  same 
things  you  were  being  romantic  about  at  the  same  time — that  is, 
about  the  same  time — I  suppose.  [She  does  not  smile  and 
speaks  without  stress.] 

AMES  [smiling  nervously  f  trying  to  be  easy].     Oh,  yes. 

ISABEL.  I  think  there  was  a  great  romantic  influence  upon 
the  whole  country  about  that  time,  don't  you? 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  309 

AMES.     Just  about — then  ?     [Slight  stress  on  ff  then."] 

ISABEL.     Yes.     I  think  what  did  it  was  the  World's  Fair. 

AMES.  You  do?  Well,  there  was  the  San  Francisco  Fair 
and  the  St.  Louis  one  and  the — the  one  at  Buffalo  and — and, 
yes,  wasn't  there  one  once  in  Chicago  in — ah,  in — 

ISABEL.    Yes,  and  one  in  Philadelphia  in  1876. 

AMES.  But  I  meant:  which  one  was  the  one  you  meant 
made  everybody  so  romantic? 

ISABEL  [easily  as  she  sews  again}.  I  was  speaking  of  the 
one  when  I  was  a  child. 

AMES.  Oh,  yes,  that  one.  [He  is  uncomfortably  going  on, 
if  he  can  think  what  to  say.] 

ISABEL  {looking  up  innocently].  I  know  what  you're  trying 
to  do. 

AMES.  Why,  we  were  just  talking  along.  I  wasn't  trying 
to — to — to — 

ISABEL.    Why,  yes,  you  were. 

AMES.    No,  no,  I — 

ISABEL.  Yes.  You  keep  on  trying  to  find  out  how  ro 
mantic  I  still  am! 

AMES.    Oh!    Oh,  well— 

ISABEL.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  I'm  as  romantic  as  you  are, 
Mr.  Ames!  The  most  romantic  woman  isn't  so  romantic  as 
the  least  romantic  man. 

AMES.    What? 

ISABEL.     It's  very  simple.    You  see,  men  don't  get  older. 

AMES.     Men  don't? 

ISABEL.  No,  they  don't.  They  don't  get  older  and  they 
stay  young  and  romantic. 

FLORENCE  [outside].     Mr.  Ames!     Mr.  Ames! 

ISABEL.     Don't  they?     Stay  romantic? 

AMES.    Well,  I— I— 

ISABEL.  For  instance,  when  you're  interested  in  anyone, 
don't  you  prefer  to  be  alone  with  them  ? 

AMES.    Yes,  I  do — I  am — we  are — 

FLORENCE  [outside].     Mr.  Ames!     Mr.  Ames! 

ISABEL.     Doesn't  she  mean  you  ? 

AMES.     Oh,  yes,  your  charming  little  niece. 

ISABEL.     Charming!     Yes! 

AMES.  Oh,  that  doesn't  mean  that  I  like  all  of  them.  I 
believe  I  mentioned  last  night. 


3io  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

ISABEL.     Yes,  I  believe  you  did. 

AMES.     But  there  is  something  about  this  one  that — •. 

ISABEL.    Yes! 

AMES.     Yes,  indeed !     She's  your — 

FLORENCE  [outside].     Mr.  Ames!     Mr.  Ames! 

ISABEL.     She's  calling  you,  isn't  she? 

AMES.     So  it  seems. 

ISABEL.     Hadn't  you  better — 

AMES.     Yes.     I'll  just  tell  her — perhaps  I'd  better. 

ISABEL.    Yes,  do. 

AMES.     Yes,  yes,  I —     [Goes  up  center,  looking  off  right.] 

FLORENCE  [outside}.  Mr.  Ames!  [ISABEL  rises  and  goes 
to  left  center,  listens  for  a  second,  and  then  crosses  to  door, 
left.} 

AMES.  Just  a  moment!  Your  aunt  and  I — oh,  have  you 
finished  your  game?  [ISABEL  exits  door,  left.] 

FLORENCE  [outside].     I'm  coming. 

AMES.  She's  coming.  [Turns  and  stares  at  ISABEL'S  va 
cant  chair.  Goes  up  center,  looks  off  left.  Goes  to  door  down 
left  and  looks  off.]  Well,  I —  [FLORENCE  enters  up  right] 
'  FLORENCE  [has  her  racquet  but  not  the  net  of  balls].  I 
knocked  all  the  balls  as  far  as  I  could  in  the  shrubbery.  He 
has  to  hunt  till  he  finds  'em.  [Comes  down  left  center.] 
Then  I  ran  and  fixed  about  that  telegram. 

AMES  [apprehensively].     Oh,  no.     I  really  cant — 

FLORENCE  [lightly].  Don't  worry!  If  you  don't  like  it 
when  it  comes,  you  can  just  say  it  isn't  important  and  tear  it 
up,  can't  you? 

AMES.     I  suppose  so.     [Disturbed] 

FLORENCE.     Attaboy!     [Crosses  right] 

AMES  [nervously,  pacing  up  and  down  left].     But  I — 

FLORENCE  [seriously].  Is  anything  bothering  you?  [She 
sits  on  sofa,  right] 

AMES  [with  a  rather  hurried  laugh].     Why,  of  course  not! 

FLORENCE.     Did  Aunt  Isabel  say — 

AMES.  She  said — she  said — I  understood  her  to  say  that 
she  wasn't  your  aunt  exactly — 

FLORENCE  [carelessly].     No,  she's  my  great-aunt. 

AMES.     Yes;  so  she  said. 

FLORENCE.    Why? 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  311 

AMES.     Of  course  there  are  a  great  many  young  great-aunts. 

FLORENCE  [carelessly].  Young  ^raz£-aunts?  I  don't  see 
how  they  could  be. 

AMES  {looking  at  her  plaintively].  Oh,  I  meant  compara 
tively,  like  your  Aunt  Isabel. 

FLORENCE.  Oh,  I  s'pose  Aunt  Ellen  knows  how  old  Aunt 
Isabel  is,  but  you  know  how  some  women  are. 

AMES  [hurriedly}.     You  mean  these  miracles? 

FLORENCE.  No;  I  mean  they  don't  usually  tell.  I  don't 
see  why  people  get  so  sensitive  about  things  like  that;  I'll  tell 
anybody  that  wants  to  know,  what  /  am ;  I'm  nineteen ;  7  don't 
care!  Golly! 

AMES  [right].  Well,  it's  a  subject  I'm  interested  in;  al 
ways  been  interested  in,  I  mean.  I  mean  in  a  general  way,  of 
course. 

FLORENCE.  What  you  gettin'  at?  Do  you  always  do  this 
when  you're  alone  with  people;  talk  about  other  women  and 
their  ages? 

AMES  [hastily].     No!     No,  indeed,  I  don't! 

FLORENCE  [coldly].  If  you're  so  anxious  about  it,  why, 
I'm  on  right  confidential  terms  with  Aunt  Isabel  and  I  could 
ask  her  right  out  how — 

AMES  [vehemently].  No!  You  mustn't  think  of  such  a 
thing.  You  really  mustn't! 

FLORENCE.  I  won't.  That  is,  I  won't  if  you're  nice  to 
me.  Don't  /  intrigue  you  any? 

AMES.     You  do!     Don't  you  see  how  much  you  do? 

FLORENCE.  I  never  have  had  a  chance  at  a  man  of  experi 
ence.  You  wouldn't  ever  think  that  I  suffer  terribly,  would 
you? 

AMES.     You  do?     [Sits  on  sofa  left  of  FLORENCE.] 

FLORENCE.     I  suffer  fearfully! 

AMES.    What  from? 

FLORENCE.  Well,  from  thoughts.  I  suffer  because  nobody 
understands  'em  and  so  I  can't  tell  'em.  I  don't  know  what 
makes  me  tell  you  all  these  things,  like  this—  [smiles  at  him 
trustingly] — but  it's  nice,  our  getting  intimate  this  way,  isn't 
it?  [Going  almost  straight  on.]  Do  you  remember  where 
you  left  my  slippers? 

AMES  [with  secret  alarm].    Your  slippers? 


312  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

FLORENCE.  Will  you  see,  please?  I  thought  maybe  you'd 
be  so  awfully  kind  as  to —  [She  sweetly  lets  the  inference  be 
made  as  she  projects  a  foot. 1 

AMES  [uneasily].  I  rather  think  your  aunt  said  she  was 
coming  back. 

FLORENCE.  Don't  you  remember  what  you  did  with  'em? 
[A  sweet,  slight  reproach.] 

AMES.     I  think  I  put  them — 

FLORENCE  [looking  about].  They  haven't  been  taken  out, 
have  they? 

AMES  [right  center].  I  don't  think  so.  I  didn't  see  any 
one — 

FLORENCE.    Why,  there  they  are  on  the  hearth! 

AMES.     Oh,  yes,  so  they  are! 

FLORENCE.     Would  it  be  too  outrageous  of  me  to — 

AMES.     Oh,  no,  indeed!     [Rises  and  starts  left.] 

FLORENCE.  No,  over  there.  [AMES  crosses  to  fireplace. 
Gets  slippers.] 

AMES  [glancing  apprehensively  left].  I'll  be  only  too  de 
lighted!  [He  kneels.] 

FLORENCE  [as  he  helps  her  to  exchange  the  tennis  shoes  for 
the  slippers].  My,  it's  a  relief  to  be  with  a  man  that  under 
stands  the  deeper  side  of  life  a  few  minutes  now  and  then! 
[None  of  FLORENCE'S  speeches  should  be  exaggerated  in  man 
ner  or  "  pointed."] 

AMES  [nervously],     I'm  glad  you  like  it. 

FLORENCE.  Is  that  all?  Couldn't  you  make  it  any 
stronger?  Don't  you  think  I'm  a  grand  little  thing?  [She 
bends  toward  him,  apparently  earnest.] 

AMES  [smiling  wanly  but  speaking  with  warmth].     I  do. 

FLORENCE.    You  do — what? 

AMES.  I  do — indeed!  [JOHNNIE  enters  up  right  with  the 
net  of  tennis  balls.] 

FLORENCE  [earnestly].  Att&boy/  You're  sure  you  "  do  in 
deed"? 

JOHNNIE  [up  right  center,  speaking  all  in  a  breath].  Why 
don't  you  try  the  lady  with  a  pair  o'  nines,  Mr.  Ames;  we  got 
a  good  stock  o'  nine-B's  on  the  top  shelf  in  the  store-room! 
[AuNT  ELLEN  enters  left.  She  comes  in  rather  quickly;  her 
expression  is  gracious;  but  she  is  astonished  to  find  AMES  on  his 
knees  before  FLORENCE.  She  halts  sharply,  speaks  quickly;  and 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  313 

at  once  turns  to  go  out  indignantly  by  the  way  she  has  come.] 

AUNT  ELLEN.     Excuse  me!     [Turns  back  left.] 

AMES.     Oh —     [He  would  rise,  but  FLORENCE  checks  him.] 

FLORENCE.     My  other  slipper! 

AMES  [hastily].  But  I —  [He  sees  ISABEL  through  open 
door  left.]  Oh,  gracious!  [Rising.  ISABEL  enters,  left] 

ISABEL  [smilingly  and  smoothly — as  she  enters].  Ellen, 
dear,  I've  been  looking  for  you ;  to  meet  Mr.  Ames.  [Laugh 
ing  commiseratingly,  she  comes  to  them]  Poor  Florence,  is 
she  having  trouble  with  her  new  slippers  again?  [ISABEL 
points  to  tennis  shoe  AMES  has  under  his  arm;  he  immedi 
ately  throws  it  on  sofa]  I'm  afraid  you'll  think  we're  terrible 
people  to  make  use  of  our  visitors,  Mr.  Ames. 

AMES  [who  has  risen].  Oh,  no,  not  at  all,  not  at  all, 
indeed ! 

ISABEL  [has  crossed  to  right  of  him,  ELLEN  is  left  center]. 
I'm  afraid  we  do,  though.  You'll  make  up  your  mind  never 
to  come  here  again!  [With  a  gesture  indicating  ELLEN.] 
I  think  I  told  you  I  wanted  you  to  meet  my  other — ah — 
[She  is  speaking  with  inconsequent  cheerfulness — and  tapers  the 
sound  off  as  he  turns  toward  ELLEN.  ISABEL,  smilingly  nod 
ding  toward  ELLEN.]  Ellen,  dear,  this  is  Mr.  Ames. 

AMES.     Ah,  ah —     [He  bows.] 

AUNT  ELLEN   [non-committal].     How  do  you  do? 

ISABEL.     Mr.  Ames,  Ellen  is  my  other  niece. 

AMES.  Your  other — how  do  you  do!  [With  a  blank  ex 
pression.  He  makes  an  inarticulate  sound  and  stands  in  an 
instantaneously  arrested  attitude] 

ISABEL  [easily].  Now  you  know  my  whole  family;  my 
niece  and  my  great-niece.  They're  both  the  greatest  comfort 
to  me. 

AMES  [hastily].     Oh,  yes.     Thank  you! 

ISABEL  [lightly  turning  from  him].  And,  Florence,  if 
you've  finished  with  the — the  footwear —  [ELLEN  sits  by  the 
table,  left  center] 

AMES.    Oh,  yes,  we've  finished. 

ISABEL  [sunnily  including  JOHNNIE  and  speaking  as  if  she 
were  trying  to  think  of  something  entertaining  for  them]. 
Then  wouldn't — wouldn't  you  three  like  to — wouldn't  you 
three  like  to  dance  or  something? 

AMES.    What? 


3H      THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

ISABEL  [crossing  to  ELLEN  near  the  table,  left  center} .  You 
must  all  go  right  on  entertaining  yourselves  just  as  if  we 
weren't  here.  We  love  to  look  on,  don't  we,  Ellen? 

AUNT  ELLEN  [with  a  glance  toward  FLORENCE'S  feet}. 
Yes,  when  they  behave.  [Sits  left  of  table — ISABEL  sits  right  of 
table.} 

ISABEL  [laughing  to  ELLEN  on  this,  then  at  once  speaking  to 
the  other  group}.  Can't  you  think  of  anything  to  amuse  your 
selves?  [Then  as  with  a  quick  afterthought,  not  seriously  said, 
yet  perhaps  meant.}  You  don't  mind  our  being  here,  do 
you? 

FLORENCE  [jumping  up}.  Of  course  not!  Turn  on  that 
record ! 

ISABEL.    Yes.     Music,  Johnnie!     [JOHNNIE  goes  up.} 

AUNT  ELLEN  [grimly,  to  ISABEL,  who  is  taking  her  seat  by 
the  table}.  But  they  don't  dance;  they  only  waggle.  It's  fear 
ful!  [JOHNNIE  pauses.} 

ISABEL.  Oh,  but  they  love  it  so;  they  mustn't  be  disap 
pointed.  [To  the  others.}  She  doesn't  really  mind;  you  can 
dance.  [She  sits,  taking  up  her  " work"} 

FLORENCE.    Attaboy!     [She  seizes  AMES'  hand.} 

AMES  [nervously}.     I  don't  know  these  new  dances! 

ISABEL.  She'll  teach  you.  Music,  Johnnie!  [ JOHNNIE 
turns  on  the  record.} 

FLORENCE  [forcing  AMES  to  dance}.  C'm  on!  I  never 
heard  of  a  man  that  couldn't  dance  with  me!  Ouch!  [She 
hops,  her  foot  slightly  injured,  but  keeps  on  dancing.} 

AMES  [as  she  cries  out}.     Murder! 

ISABEL  [under  cover  to  him;  he  is  close  to  her}.  Walk. 
Just  walk.  That's  all  you  need  to  do.  [He  does  better  upon 
this.}  That's  it;  just  walk. 

FLORENCE  [to  AMES].  Isn't  it  divine?  [HENRY  enters 
Up  right.} 

ISABEL  [indulgently,  to  AUNT  ELLEN].  Isn't  it  delightful 
to  see  them  so  happy?  [HENRY  comes  down  to  ISABEL.  He 
has  a  folded  telegraph  blank  in  his  hand.  She  observes  him.} 
It  isn't  time  for  Mr.  Ames'  train,  Henry? 

HENRY.     No'm.     [He  shows  the  blank.} 

ISABEL.  Oh!  Something  for  me?  [She  rises  and  extends 
her  hand  for  the  blank.} 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  315 

FLORENCE  [seeing  this].  Oh,  murder!  [Under  her 
breath.  They  stop  dancing,  left  center.] 

ISABEL  [as  HENRY  hands  her  the  blank].    What  is  it? 

HENRY  [as  ISABEL  examines  the  blank].  I  don't  rightly 
know,  ma'am.  I  was  told  about  it  in  such  a  hurry.  [He 
glances  nervously  at  FLORENCE.]  I  may  not  'a'  got  my  instruc 
tions  just  exactly. 

ISABEL  [puzzled].  Your  "instructions"?  Oh,  this  isn't 
really  a  telegram.  No;  there's  no  envelope  and  date,  and  it's 
written  in  such  a  bad  backhand  I  can  hardly — oh !  [She  speaks 
as  though  with  a  sudden  revelation,  comprehending,  and 
glances  quickly  at  FLORENCE.]  Oh,  I  see.  [Rises.]  I 
don't  think  it's  for  me,  Henry.  [Hands  telegram  to 
HENRY.] 

FLORENCE.  Here,  let  me!  [She  comes  to  the  rescue,  seizes 
the  blank,  hands  it  swiftly  to  AMES,  who  stands  dismayed.] 
You  see,  Mr.  Ames  wired  his  partners  from  here  and  so  this 
must  be  from  them.  Of — course  it's  a  telegram;  isn't  it,  Mr, 
Ames? 

ISABEL  [gently  insistent].     Is  it,  Mr.  Ames? 

AMES  [desperately].    I  can't  read  it! 

ISABEL.  It  is  a  difficult  handwriting.  [She  knows  it  is 
FLORENCE'S  hand,  though  somewhat  disguised.] 

FLORENCE  [taking  the  blank  hastily].  I  can  read  most  any 
hand.  Why,  yes,  it's  perfectly  plain.  It  says:  "  No  business 
in  the  office  to-day.  If  you  wish  to  remain  where  you  are  no 
reason  whatever  for  returning  to  New  York.  Signed  Wither- 
spoon  and  Ames."  He  told  me  himself  he  had  a  partner  named 
Witherspoon.  [Goes  back  of  table.  JOHNNIE  stops  phono 
graph.] 

ISABEL  [to  AMES].  Oh,  then  it  is  a  real  telegram?  [She 
knows,  of  course,  it  isn't.] 

AMES  [as  FLORENCE  turns  quickly  toward  him].  Why,  it — 
ah — seems  to  be. 

ISABEL.  Oh,  then  you'll — you'll  stay?  [//  he  stays  it  ap 
pears  that  he  stays  upon  FLORENCE'S  urgence.] 

AMES.    Why — I — I — 

ISABEL  [covering  her  real  feeling].  Mr.  Ames  won't  be 
going  to  the  station,  Henry.  [HENRY  exits  up  left.  FLOR 
ENCE  has  carelessly  set  the  blank  upon  the  table,  after  reading 


3i6  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

it,  her  fingers  resting  upon  it,  but  AUNT  ELLEN  draws  it  away 
to  look  at  it,  FLORENCE  turning  as  if  to  reclaim  it.] 

AUNT  ELLEN  [rather  excitedly].  But  there  isn't  even  an 
envelope;  it  isn't  a  real  telegram;  the  writing's  queer  but  it 
looks  exactly  like  Flor —  [She  finishes  the  word,  but  ISABEL 
cuts  her  off  loudly  on  "  Flor."} 

ISABEL  [pushing  the  bell-button,  on  left  wall].  Music, 
Johnnie!  Isn't  it  lovely?  Now  you  can  dance  all  day!  [She 
turns  to  center  as  she  speaks,  and  limps  suddenly.  And  says 
ff  Oh,  oh!  "  as  if  in  pain.  JOHNNIE  has  started  the  vocalion  at 
her  first  word.  It  plays  softly.  FLORENCE  has  seized  AMES' 
hand  with  a  jubilant  "  Hooray!  "  as  the  music  starts.  But  they 
pause  as  AUNT  ELLEN  speaks. ~\ 

AUNT  ELLEN.     What's  the  matter  with  you? 

ISABEL.     Nothing — oh!     [She  limps  again.] 

JOHNNIE  [coming  down  anxiously].  What  is  the  matter, 
Miss  Stuart? 

ISABEL.  Nothing.  I'm  afraid  I  sat  a  little  too  long  on  a 
baggage  truck  in  a  cold  wind  last  night,  that's  all.  It's  nothing. 

FLORENCE.  Oh,  rheumatism;  that's  nothing!  [FLORENCE 
retains  AMES'  hand;  moves  as  if  to  begin  dancing.  MATTIE 
enters,  left,  her  right  hand  behind  her.] 

AMES  [plaintively,  to  FLORENCE].  Just  a —  [He  means 
ff  Just  a  moment,"  but  breaks  away  from  FLORENCE  and  crosses 
to  center  to  speak  to  ISABEL.]  I  hope  it's  nothing  very — 

ISABEL.  No — no — it  isn't — it's  just  a — just  a  touch.  You 
mustn't  stop  dancing.  [FLORENCE  crosses  to  center,  takes 
AMES  up  center  to  dance.] 

JOHNNIE  [taking  her  arm  decisively].  Here!  I'll  look 
after  you,  Miss  Stuart;  I'd  prefer  to.  [He  gives  FLORENCE 
a  bitter  look.} 

ISABEL.  Thank  you,  Johnnie.  [To  MATTIE.]  Did  you 
find  them,  Mattie? 

MATTIE  [hurriedly].  Ya  don't  want  to  put  'em  on  here, 
do  you? 

ISABEL  [quiet  pathos.]  No,  I'll —  [As  if  to  go  out 
left.] 

JOHNNIE.     Put  what  on? 

ISABEL.     Nothing. 

MATTIE  [bringing  her  hand  from  behind  her,  showing  an 
old  pair  of  rather  large,  flat  black  slippers.  Not  displaying 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  317 

them  pointedly  to  audience].  Them.  I  don't  mind  lendin* 
'em  to  you,  but — 

ISABEL  [quickly,  checking  her].  I  thought  perhaps  they 
might  help  me,  but  not — not —  ["Not  now  and  here"  she 
means;  the  scene  is  hurried] 

JOHNNIE  [taking  the  slippers,  speaks  quickly  and  em 
phatically].  Why  not?  Why,  certainly!  You  let  me  put — 
'em  on  for  you,  Miss  Stuart.  I'd  prefer  to!  I'd  very  much 
prefer  to!  Here!  You  better  lie  down.  [He  is  conducting 
her  to  the  sofa,  her  limp  increasing  a  little] 

ISABEL  [trustfully].  Do  you  think  I'd  better  lie  down, 
Johnnie? 

JOHNNIE  [severely,  to  MATTIE],  Whyn't  you  fix  those 
pillows  for  her?  [ISABEL  lies  down.  MATTIE  hastily  obeys 
the  suggestion]  She's  all  tired  out.  And  I  guess  she's  had 
enough  to  make  anybody  tired!  [He  takes  off  her  slippers] 

AMES.     What  is  the  matter,  Miss  Stuart? 

JOHNNIE  [quickly,  sharply].  Why,  she's  been  made  awful 
tired  and  she's  got  rheumatism  and  everything) 

ISABEL.     Oh,  no;  not  quite! 

JOHNNIE  [to  MATTIE].     Put  that  wrap  over  her. 

AMES  [starting  to  stoop  to  fix  her  slippers].  Won't  you  let 
me — 

ISABEL  [stopping  him].  Oh,  no!  You  must  go  on 
dancing. 

AMES.  But  I —  [AMES  stares  all  the  time  incredulously 
at  ISABEL.  So  does  AUNT  ELLEN,  across  left] 

ISABEL.  I'm  so  much  trouble,  Johnnie —  [Pointing  to  the 
slippers]  Aren't  they  awful! 

JOHNNIE  [as  he  puts  them  on].  No'm,  they're  not.  I 
prefer  'em  myself!  I  very  much  prefer  'em!  [He  puts  her 
other  slippers  defiantly  under  his  arms]  You  just  lie  back  and 
rest,  Miss  Stuart.  I'll  look  after  you. 

ISABEL.  Thank  you,  Johnnie.  [She  lies  on  sofa,  head  at 
right  of  sofa,  facing  center] 

FLORENCE.  Louder,  Mattie!  [MATTIE  opens  vocalion  to 
its  loudest.  FLORENCE  seizes  AMES,  and  they  dance] 

JOHNNIE.  If  you  can  rest  with  all  this  going  on?  [AMES 
and  FLORENCE  dance  over  to  left  front  of  table,  go  around  table 
and  come  to  center] 

ISABEL.     That's  right!     That's  right!     [Referring  to   the 


3i8  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

dance. ,]  Isn't  it  lovely  to  see  the  young  people  so  happy? 
[AMES  and  FLORENCE  start  to  whirl  around  in  center,  AMES 
looking  at  ISABEL.  ISABEL,  as  if  beating  time,  saying  tf  One, 
two,  one,  two."~\ 

[CURTAIN.] 

NOTE. — This  final  scene  will  have  to  be  worked  out  carefully  in 
rehearsal,  beginning  slowly;  and  the  sequence,  as  shown  here,  may 
need  altering  when  it  is  worked  out.  The  effect  is  to  bring  the  cur 
tain  down  not  on  a  "  curtain  line "  but  upon  a  scene  of  movement 
and  sound  conveying  the  "  situation."  Johnnie  is  only  earnest  and 
indignantly  sympathetic  with  Isabel  here,  but  the  appearance  of 
things  is:  both  gentlemen  are  anxious  about  Isabel  and  that  Florence 
is  amazed. 


ACT  III 

SCENE 

The  scene  is  the  same  interior  shown  in  the  Second  Act,  the 
time  is  late  in  the  afternoon — toward  evening — of  the  same 
day.  The  outdoor  light,  seen  through  the  sun-room  win- 
dows,  has  a  rosier  amber  than  in  the  Second  Act.  A  fore 
running  of  the  approaching  sunset;  but  the  stage  is  still 
bright  with  light. 

DISCOVERED 

AUNT  ELLEN,  as  in  Act  II,  sits  by  the  fireplace,  which  sends  out 
a  warm  glow;  she  is  crocheting.  MATTIE,  on  hands  and 
knees,  is  facing  the  cabinet  up  right.  The  doors  of  the 
cabinet  are  partly  open,  revealing  shelves  of  old  boxes;  old 
ornaments  of  various  kinds,  small  vases,  silver  porringers, 
etc.;  two  or  three  old  pistols;  rolled  papers — old  and  tied 
with  red  ribbon;  some  old  books.  MATTIE  is  pawing 
carefully  among  these,  apparently  puzzled. 

Scene  to  be  played  quietly  and  inconsequently;  rather  quickly. 

[MATTIE  discovered  rubbing  the  inside  of  the  left  door  of  the 
cabinet.  AUNT  ELLEN  comes  down,  center.} 

MATTIE.     It  certainly  ain't  here,  Miss  Ellen. 

AUNT  ELLEN.  But  that's  where  it  ought  to  be.  Did  she 
tell  you  to  scrape  that  date  off? 

MATTIE.  I  wasn't  to  say,  Miss  Ellen.  Anyway,  it's  only 
half  the  date  was  to  be  scraped  off. 

AUNT  ELLEN.  It's  very  singular!  But  the  rest  of  it  is 
more  singular.  [ISABEL  enters,  left.}  Did  you  ask  Aunt 
Isabel? 

ISABEL.  Did  she  ask  me  what,  Ellen?  [She  limps  to 
center.} 

AUNT  ELLEN.  Oh,  the  poor  thing.  She's  limping  worse. 
It's  very  singular! 

319 


320  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

ISABEL.    What  is? 

AUNT  ELLEN.  It's  very  singular,  the  Family  Bible's  miss 
ing. 

ISABEL.     Oh,  is  that  all!     [ISABEL  limps  to  sofa.] 

AUNT  ELLEN.  Is  that  "  all "  ?  Do  you  realize  the  date  of 
my  birth  is  written  in  that  Bible? 

ISABEL  [sits  on  sofa,  lightly'}.  Oh,  yes;  yours  is  there,  too, 
isn't  it?  I've  always  thought  fathers  were  an  inconsiderate  class 
of  men.  When  they  have  a  baby  they  only  think  of  them 
selves;  they  go  and  write  down  the  date  in  a  Bible,  even  when 
the  baby's  a  girl.  They  don't  stop  to  think. 

AUNT  ELLEN  [looking  at  her  with  an  approach  to  sus 
picion}.  What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

ISABEL.  Do  you  think  something  does  seem  the  matter  with 
me?  Do  you  really ?  [She  is  pleased  with  the  idea  that 
ff  something  "  may  really  be  the  matter  with  her.} 

AUNT  ELLEN.  You  haven't  got  upset  this  way  for  quite  a 
long  while  now;  but  it  certainly  isn't  the  first  time,  is  it, 
Mattie?  [ISABEL  has  her  lace  with  her  and  begins  to  work. 
AUNT  ELLEN  doesn't  turn  her  head  to  make  this  inquiry,  but 
continues  her  crocheting.] 

MATTIE  [quickly  and  casually}.  No'm;  it  happens  every 
time  she  has  a  shooter.  Last  one  was  that  Philadelphy  man- 
widower  ;  she  half-killed  him  horseback  ridin' ;  and  before  him 
that  awful  youngish  one  from  Buffalo;  and  then  that  old 
one — 

ISABEL  [quickly,  to  check  MATTIE'S  list  of  suitors}.  Never 
mind  the  old  one.  Ellen,  there's  another  Bible  upstairs. 

AUNT  ELLEN.  But  I'm  used  to  reading  my  daily  chapter 
from  this  one. 

ISABEL.  Don't  you  suppose  you'd  find  much  the  same  ideas 
in  both  of  'em? 

AUNT  ELLEN  [sharply}.     Aunt  Isabel! 

ISABEL.    Yes,  Ellen? 

AUNT  ELLEN.  I  suppose  you  treat  me  like  a  child  because 
I'm  only  your  niece! 

ISABEL  [reproachfully}.  Ellen,  have  I  ever  taken  advan 
tage  of  my  position  as  your  aunt? 

AUNT  ELLEN  [querulous}.  A  great  many  people  have  very 
little  respect  for  nieces;  and  as  I'm  only  your  half -niece — 

ISABEL    [taking  her  up  indulgently].     As  you're  only  my 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  321 

half-niece  you  have  only  half  as  much  respect  for  me  as  you 
ought  to  have? 

AUNT  ELLEN  [severely  going  on].  I  don't  pretend  to 
fathom  your  purpose  in  concealing  the  Bible  from  me — 

ISABEL  [shaking  her  head].  Oh,  I'm  not  sure  that  nieces 
ought  to  be  allowed  to  look  at  all  the  pictures  in  any  old 
Family  Bible.  .  .  .  But  of  course  I  don't  admit  I  did  hide  it. 

AUNT  ELLEN  [incensed,  becoming  stately  as  she  goes  left], 
I  decline  to  be  treated  like  a  child!  [Exits  left.] 

MATTIE.     She's  on!     [Coming  down  center.] 

ISABEL.     She's  what? 

MATTIE.  She  knows  the  Good  Book  never  walked  out  o' 
there  by  itself. 

ISABEL  [turning  eagerly  in  her  chair].  Did  you  do  just 
what  I  told  you  to? 

MATTIE  [with  a  gesture  to  a  chair,  left  center.  She  tells  it 
quickly  without  "acting"].  Yes'm.  I  waited  till  he  was 
settin'  in  here  alone  a  bit  ago — so  I  come  in  and  begun  to  look 
around,  and  I  says  to  myself  like,  the  way  you  told  me,  "  Weil, 
that's  funny,"  I  says,  talkin'  to  myself.  "  It's  funny  where 
sech  a  thing  as  that  could  get  to.  A  great  big  old  Family 
Bible!"  I  says.  "  What'd  you  say  was  missin'?"  he  says. 
So  I  says,  "  Excuse  me.  It's  nothin'  .  .  .  Only  the  Family 
Bible;  we  always  keep  it  in  here."  [With  a  gesture  to 
the  cabinet.]  "  So  I  know  it  must  be  around  somewheres,"  I 
says.  Well,  he  jumped  right  up.  "My  goodness!"  he  says. 
"  Let  me  help  you  look  for  it !  "  he  says. 

ISABEL.     Yes,  Mattie?     Did  he  look  all  over  the  room? 

MATTIE  [calmly].  He  pretty  near  took  up  the  floor. 
Then  he  went  out  in  the  hall  and  looked  under  the  stairs  and 
under  everything  else.  "  Maybe  somebody's  usin'  it  fer  jest 
a  while/'  he  says,  "  and  they'll  bring  it  back  here  where  they 
got  it."  "Well,"  I  says — I  put  this  in  myself;  you  didn't  tell 
me  to— "well,"  I  says,  "they  might  bring  it  back  here, 
yes ;  or  somebody  might  of  put  it  up  in  the  attic."  "  In  the 
attic?  "  he  says.  "  I  hardly  got  time  to  go  up  there,  though," 
I  says.  "  I  do  take  a  terrible  interest  in  Bibles,"  he 
says.  "  Do  you  think  there's  any  objection  to  my  goin'  up  in 
the  attic  to  see?  "  he  says.  "  Oh,  no,  sir,"  I  says,  "  none  at  all." 
"  Somebody  might  'a'  put  it  there,  as  you  say,"  he  says.  They 
often  do,"  he  says,  "  and  if  you  think  Miss  Stuart  wouldn't 


322  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

mind  ..."     "  Oh,  no,"  I  says,  "  I  know  she  wouldn't.     You 
just  go  ahead,"  I  says. 

ISABEL.     Mattie !     And  he  did? 

MATTIE.     Yes'm.     I  reckon  he's  still  up  there. 

ISABEL.  On  the  whole,  he  seems  quite  excited  about  it, 
then? 

MATTIE.  Well,  I  never  see  a  man  show  so  much  energy 
tryin'  to  find  the  Good  Book. 

ISABEL.     We  all  ought  to  be  glad  this  has  happened,  Mattie. 

MATTIE.     Why  ought  we? 

ISABEL.  We  ought  to  be  glad  to  have  such  a  religious  man 
in  the  house. 

MATTIE  [dryly,  going  left].  Yes'm.  [Reflectively.]  I 
must  say  I  don't  blame  you  fer  hidin'  it — with  all  your  ages — 
and  the  family  scandal  wrote  out  in  it! 

ISABEL.    What  "  scandal"  ? 

MATTIE.     About  your  poor  father,  ma'am. 

ISABEL.  Good  gracious,  Mattie,  it  isn't  a  scandal  for  a  man 
to  marry  a  second  time! 

MATTIE.     Yes'm.     At  his  terrible  age,  it  was. 

ISABEL.  Well,  I  never  reproached  him  for  it,  because  I 
shouldn't  have  been  born  if  he  hadn't!  Have  you  seen  my 
other  case  of  needles,  Mattie  ?  [Rises."] 

MATTIE.  No'm.  What  I  don't  understand's  why  you 
wanted  him  to  know  it  was  missin'.  [She  hopes  to  be  told.] 

ISABEL.  No,  that's  very  true.  You  don't  understand  that, 
Mattie.  [Crosses  left.] 

MATTIE  [opening  the  door  to  go  out].     No'm.     [Blankly.] 

ISABEL.  When  he  comes  down — oh,  there's  that  case  of 
needles!  [She  sees  it  on  the  table,  left  center,  and  steps  to 
ward  it.] 

MATTIE  [warningly].     Sh!     He  is  down! 

ISABEL.  Down  where?  [She  abandons  her  intention  of 
getting  the  needles,  though  she  is  near  them.  She  turns  and 
goes  quickly  back,  with  almost  no  lameness — to  the  sofa  and 
resumes  her  work.  MATTIE  stares,  astonished.] 

MATTIE.     I  thought  you  was  limpin'  this  afternoon. 

ISABEL  [whispering  across  to  her].  Sh!  I  am!  It  comes 
and  goes.  Is  he  there? 

MATTIE  [peering  out  of  the  door  and  looking  back,  whis 
pering].  He's  lookin'  under  the  hall  sofy  again!  [She  coughs, 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  323 

steps  back,  and  AMES  enters,  left.  AMES  comes  in  quickly, 
with  the  frown  of  a  person  intent  on  a  serious  search;  his  eye 
is  on  the  cabinet,  and  he  has  come  into  the  room  to  go  there. 
He  checks  himself  at  sight  of  ISABEL  by  the  fire.  MATTIE 
observes  them  both  with  interest.'] 

AMES  [center].    Oh!     Oh!     How  do  you  do? 

ISABEL  [working].     How  do  you  do? 

AMES.     I  hope  you're — better  ?     [He  glances  at  the  cabinet.] 

ISABEL.  Oh,  yes;  it  comes  and  goes;  you  know.  [Touches 
her  knee.] 

AMES  [in  a  sympathetic  tone].  No,  I  don't;  I've  never  had 
it,  so  far. 

ISABEL  [rising  and  looking  about].     Not  "so  far." 

AMES  [rather  eagerly].     Are  you  looking  for  something? 

ISABEL.  Yes,  I  had  it  a  little  while  ago,  too ;  it's  stupid  of 
me !  [Rises.] 

AMES  [eagerly,  quickly,  hoping  she  means  the  Bible]. 
Can't  you  remember  where  you  put  it?  Did  you  have  it  in 
here? 

ISABEL.  Yes.  [She  moves  slowly  and  her  lameness  is  now 
somewhat  more  apparent.  MATTIE,  kept  by  her  curiosity,  at 
the  door,  observes  her  with  enlarging  eyes  and  an  opening 
mouth.  ISABEL  goes  on.]  Yes,  I'm  sure  I  had  it  in  here — if 
I  could  only  think  where  I  put  it.  [Crosses  left.] 

AMES  [eagerly].  Let  me  look.  You  really  shouldn't  move 
about  much,  I'm  afraid.  [He  is  already  looking  about.] 

ISABEL  [plaintively].  You're  so  kind!  It  is  a  little  bother 
some,  at  times.  [There  is  a  faint  sound  like  a  choke  from 
MATTIE,  not  mirth,  but  a  moral  amazement.  ISABEL  turns 
toward  her,  at  this.]  That's  all,  Mattie.  I  shan't  want  you 
for  anything  more. 

MATTIE.     Yes'm.     [Exits  left.] 

ISABEL  [concentrating].  If  I  could  only  think — it  seems 
to  me  I  left  it  somewhere  over  on  this  side  of  the  room.  [The 
left  side.] 

AMES  [dubiously].  I  hardly  think  so.  [He  glances  be 
hind  a  large  wall  chair.]  I  already  have  looked  all  over  this — 
[Crosses  to  left  to  lower  end  of  table.], 

ISABEL  [with  a  little  triumphant  emphasis].  Why,  there 
it  is!  On  the  table  all  the  time!! 

AMES  [blankly'].     On  the  table? 


324  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

ISABEL  [pointing  to  the  little  case  of  needles'].  Yes.  Just 
where  I  left  it,  of  course!  [He  picks  it  up.} 

AMES  [blankly].     This?     Is  this  what  you  mean? 

ISABEL  [laughing  at  him}.  Yes!  My  needles.  What  did 
you  think  I  meant? 

AMES.     I?     I  didn't  know  exactly. 

ISABEL.     Then  what  were  you  looking  for? 

AMES  [quickly].  I  was  looking  for  your  needles,  too.  I 
didn't  know  they  were  what  you  wanted,  I  mean  to  say,  but 
I  wanted  to  find  them  if  you  were  looking  for  them. 

ISABEL.  I  see.  You  didn't  know  you  were  looking  for 
them,  but  you  were.  I'll  take  them,  please. 

AMES.  Oh,  yes.  [He  hands  them  to  her.  They  are  about 
center,  down.] 

ISABEL.  Thank  you.  [She  has  stretched  out  her  arm  to 
take  the  needles,  looking  at  him  gravely.  Something  in  her 
look  arrests  him  and  he  unconsciously  retains  his  grasp  of  the 
little  red  case;  so  that  for  a  moment  or  two  their  fingers  are 
almost  in  contact  upon  it.  Their  eyes  meet,  and  her  expression 
for  that  moment  becomes  one  of  an  almost  revealed  mockery. 
He  starts  slightly;  the  mockery  deepens,  and  she  laughs.} 

AMES  [nervously}.     What  are  you  laughing  at? 

ISABEL  [turning  to  go  back  to  sofa}.  It  was  so  peculiar, 
your  looking  for  something  without  knowing  what  you  were 
looking  for!  [She  changes  to  a  sudden  little  gasp.]  Oh! 

AMES.     Are  you  in  considerable  pain?     [Comes  to  her.} 

ISABEL.  It  just  comes  and  goes.  [She  laughs  again,  gasps 
again,  laughs  once  more  as  she  goes  to  the  chair.} 

AMES  [nervously}.     Won't  you  lean  on  me? 

ISABEL  [as  before}.     No,  no! 

AMES  [anxiously}.     Can't  I  get  you  something? 

ISABEL  [sinking  into  sofa}.  No;  there  isn't  any  in  the 
house. 

AMES  [coming  toward  her}.     I'm  so  sorry. 

ISABEL  [smiling}.  It's  gone  now.  It  comes  and  goes. 
That  is,  it  comes  but  it  does  go;  you  know — like  most  other 
things  in  the  world!  [Looking  up  at  him  charmingly,  wist 
fully  for  a  moment.} 

AMES.     I  must  say — your  eyes — 

ISABEL.  Yes?  My  eyes?  I  think  I  remember  your  speak 
ing  of  them  this  morning. 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  325 

AMES.    Your  eyes — 

ISABEL  [looking  back  at  her  work,  speaks  with  a  change  to  a 
matter-of-fact  tone].  Ah,  what  were  you  going  to  say  about 
them? 

AMES  [set  aback'}.  I  was  going  to  say —  [He  assumes  a 
solicitous  tone.]  1  was  going  to  say,  don't  you  think  you  ought 
to  get  advice  about  using  them  for  such  fine  work  ? 

ISABEL.  They've  held  out  so  well.  I  think  now  they'll  last 
my  time.  Do  you  have  any  trouble  with  yours?  [Casually.'} 

AMES.  I?  Oh,  no.  I  use  glasses  sometimes  for  very  fine 
print. 

ISABEL.     I'm  so  sorry. 

AMES  [laughing  nervously].  Oh,  it  isn't  because  of  my 
a —  ["  Age"  he  means  to  say,  but  cuts  it  off.]  I  mean  it  just 
happened. 

ISABEL  [consolingly].  I  know.  Even  very  young  people 
get  these  little  astigmatisms.  They  don't  mean  anything. 

AMES.  There's  something  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  ex 
plain  to  you — 

ISABEL.  Please  don't  explain  anything — especially  if  it's 
about  a  telegram. 

AMES.     But  that  telegram  wasn't — 

ISABEL  [declining  to  listen].  No,  no!  Poor  man,  you  had 
to  stay,  didn't  you?  [Affirmative.'] 

AMES  [seriously].     I  wanted  to! 

ISABEL  [with  light  indulgence].  Of  course.  [AMES  turns 
to  center.]  What  have  you  been  doing  for  the  last  hour  or  so? 

AMES.  I?  [He  unconsciously  looks  upward,  thinking  of 
the  attic.]  I've  just  been  looking  about.  [He  goes  to  the 
cabinet  up  right.  MATTIE  has  left  one  of  the  doors  ajar.} 
You  have  so  many  interesting  things.  [He  quickly  and  sur 
reptitiously  opens  the  door  wider  as  he  speaks  and  takes  a  hur 
ried  survey  of  that  half  of  the  shelves  revealed  by  the  open  door. 
ISABEL  turns  her  head  only  a  little,  and  applies  herself  to  her 
work.  She  knows  what  he  is  doing  without  looking  directly  at 
him.] 

ISABEL  [as  if  absently].     Florence  was  with  you? 

AMES  [absently].  No;  she  went  fishing  in  your  brook  with 
young  Mr.  White.  [He  wishes  to  open  the  other  door  of  the 
cabinet.} 

ISABEL.     Fishing?     [She    turns    her    head;   and   he    moves 


326  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

down,  away  from  the  cabinet,  with  apparent  carelessness.'} 
Did  she  wear  her  rubber  boots? 

AMES  [absently  repeating}.  "Her  rubber  boots"?  [Then 
with  a  sudden  start,  comes  down  right.}  I  don't  know!  I 
don't  know  what  her  "foot-wear"  was;  I'm  really  not  in  the 
boot-and-shoe  business:  I'm  a  lawyer! 

ISABEL  [consolingly,  as  she  rises'].  She  won't  be  gone  long. 
[She  goes  toward  up  left  as  she  speaks.}  I'm  so  glad  you 
changed  your  mind  about  them. 

AMES.     About  them?     [Front  of  sofa.} 

ISABEL  [nearing  the  door  up  left}.  Yes,  about  the  new 
generation:  the  "brazen  little  hussies"!  You  frightened  me 
last  night  about  them! 

AMES.     Why,  how'd  I  frighten  you? 

ISABEL.  Why,  I  was  afraid  you  mightn't  like  my  great- 
niece.  Under  the  circumstances,  you  see — well,  that  would 
have  been  too  bad,  wouldn't  it?  [She  gives  him  a  glance  of 
quick  smiling  mockery  over  her  shoulder,  and  passes  out  of  the 
door  up  left.  He  stares  after  her,  perplexed;  passes  his  hand 
hurriedly  over  his  brow;  then  goes  to  the  cabinet;  opens  its 
other  door  and  stoops  to  look  within;  ISABEL  reenters  down\ 
left,  having  gone  out  only  to  see  if  he  would  go  to  the  cabinet. 
She  sees  him  there  as  she  comes  in.} 

ISABEL  [apologetically}.  I'm  afraid —  [AMES  turns  to 
her.}  I'm  afraid  I  left  my  work  here.  [She  comes  down  to 
ward  right.} 

AMES  [embarrassed,  moving  hastily  away  from  the  cabinet}. 
Ah — I  was — your  work?  Let  me  find  it  for  you.  [In  his 
nervousness  he  goes  to  the  table,  left  center,  to  look  for  it.} 

ISABEL.  Oh,  no.  Don't  bother.  I  think  I  left  it  on  the 
sofa.  [She  reaches  the  chair.}  Yes.  [She  sits  on  sofa.}  I 
think  I'll  stay  here,  after  all,  if  you're  sure  I  won't  be  inter 
rupting  you. 

AMES.  Interrupting  me!  Why,  I'm  not  doing  anything. 
What  in  the  world  do  you  mean? 

ISABEL.  You  spoke  of  our  having  interesting  things.  I 
didn't  want  to  interrupt  your  looking  at  them. 

AMES.  Oh!  [A  puzzled  "Oh,  that's-what-you-meant"  is 
what  he  expresses.} 

ISABEL  [placidly}.  I  noticed  you  were  interested  in  that 
cabinet. 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  327 

AMES  [somewhat  relieved}.  Yes;  so  I  was.  [He  goes  to 
it  and  completes  his  investigation.']  Yes,  indeed.  [He  sees 
that  the  Bible  is  not  there,  and  adds,  in  a  blank  tone :}  Yes, 
it's  a  very  interesting  old  piece. 

ISABEL.     Do  you  think  so  ? 

AMES.  I'm  not  an  expert — on  periods,  but  I'd  call  it  a  very 
fine,  quaint  old  piece. 

ISABEL  [with  a  little  too  much  serenity'].  Yes,  they  had  it 
made  for  a  present  to  me  on  my  fifteenth  birthday. 

AMES.  Oh,  oh!  I  see,  it's  a  reproduction.  It  was  made 
for  you — your  fifteenth  birthday  ? 

ISABEL.     Yes;  it  had  an  inscription  with  the  date  on  it. 

AMES  [trying  to  conceal  his  sudden  great  interest}.  It  had? 
An  inscription  with  the  .  .  .  where?  [He  looks  quickly  over 
the  top  and  sides  of  the  cabinet  as  he  speaks.}  Where's  there 
any  da — where 's  there  any  inscription?  I  don't  see  an  in 
scription. 

ISABEL.     I  think  it's  inside  the  door  on  the  left. 

AMES  [swinging  the  door  open  instantly  and  putting  on  his 
glasses}.  On  the  left.  Yes.  It  says:  "To  Isabel  Stuart. 
On  her  sixteenth  birthday,  June  thirteenth."  [He  begins  the 
reading  rapidly  but  slows  up  and  looks  more  and  more  closely 
at  the  inscription,  which  is  in  small  gilt  letters;  and  the  con 
cluding  words  are  slow  with  bafflement.  He  repeats:} 
"  Fifteenth  birthday.  June  thirteenth."  That's  all  it  says. 
The  rest  seems  to  have  been — uh — scraped  off. 

ISABEL  [lightly}.  Oh,  that  was  only  the  year  they  gave  it 
to  me.  I  suppose  the  figures  have  been  worn  off — with  time. 
Do  you  think  it's  an  interesting  piece  of  cabinet  making? 

AMES  [blankly,  giving  up  the  figures}.  Yes,  very.  A  very 
interesting  piece  indeed,  I  should  say ! 

ISABEL  [as  if  a  little  absently}.  Have  you  ever  noticed  how 
disappointing  most  fine  quaint  old  pieces  are  when  you  come  to 
look  inside  of  'em? 

AMES.  Yes,  that's  true;  they  often  are.  [Glances  at 
cabinet.} 

ISABEL.  We  try  to  do  better  with  that  one;  we  keep  relics 
in  it;  daguerreotypes,  all  sorts  of  things — the  Family  Bible 
and —  [Then,  as  by  a  casual  thought.}  Oh — Mattie  tells 
me  it's  missing — by  the  way.  She  said  you  were  so  kind  about 
it. 


328  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

AMES  [flustered}.  She  did?  She  said —  [Comes  to 
center.} 

ISABEL  [smiling  gratefully}.  She  said  you  helped  her  look 
for  it. 

AMES.     Oh,  that  was  nothing.     Nothing  at  all! 

ISABEL.     She  said  you  were  so  kind. 

AMES.     Oh,  no!     Not  at  all! 

ISABEL  [with  benevolent  appreciation}.  It's  a  little  thing, 
of  course,  to  stop  and  help  a  servant  like  that,  but  it's  the  little 
things  that  show  our  characters.  We  learn  that  in  Sunday- 
school,  don't  we?  It  was  so  thoughtful  of  you  to  stop  and 
help  poor  Mattie  like  that! 

AMES  [hurriedly}.  Oh,  no;  you  mustn't  praise  me  for  it. 
It  was  nothing  at  all. 

ISABEL  [smiling  wistfully  and  observing  him  as  if  rather 
wondering}.  Do  you  think  you  seem  a  little  different  to-day, 
from  last  night? 

AMES.     Oh,  no.     Not  at  all. 

ISABEL.     Don't  you  notice  it? 

AMES.    Why,  no,  of  course  not.     Not  at  all. 

ISABEL.  Last  night  you  were — well,  you  were  quite — 
fluent!  But  all  day  you've  hardly  said  anything  except  "  Oh, 
no,  not  at  all,  of  course  not  "  or  "  Nothing,  oh,  nothing  at  all." 

AMES.     Oh,  no,  not  at — that  is  to  say,  I — 

ISABEL  [rises — sympathetically}.  Is  it  because  you  can't 
think  of  anything  else  to  say? 

AMES.  Oh,  no,  not  at — no!  No,  it  isn't  because  of  that; 
not  at — not  a  bit! 

ISABEL  [solicitously}.  You  do  seem  to  be  thinking.  I  can 
see  you're  doing  that;  but  why  don't  you  tell  me  what  you're 
thinking? 

AMES.     Because  I'm  really  not. 

ISABEL.    You're  not  thinking? 

AMES.     No.     Not  about  anything,  I  mean. 

ISABEL.  Is  it  something  you  won't  tell  me,  or  something 
you  cant  tell  me? 

AMES.  It's  nothing.  It's  nothing  at — nothing  whatever! 
Nothing  whatever! 

ISABEL  [sympathetically}.  Can't  you  think  of  anything  else 
to  say? 

AMES  [desperately,  yet  feebly}.     Why,  yes,  of  course.     Of 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  329 

course  I  can.     Anything  at  all;  anything.     [Goes  around  table 
and  crosses  to  left  center.] 

ISABEL.  You  don't  think  I've  changed  since  last  night,  do- 
you?  You  aren't  disappointed  in  me,  are  you? 

AMES.  Why,  of  course  I'm  not.  Not  at — certainly  not. 
Why,  no;  not — 

ISABEL.  "  Not  at  all!'*  "Certainly  not! "  And  you 
haven't  changed,  have  you? 

AMES.     Why,  no — not  at — 

ISABEL  [going  nearer  to  him,  reproachfully].  Not  at  all! 
Why,  of  course  not!  Not  at  all!  Nothing  whatever!  [She 
turns  up.] 

AMES  [flustered].     What  on  earth  do  you  mean? 

ISABEL.  Why,  that's  what  you  were  going  to  say,  wasn't  it? 
You  haven't  changed,  have  you?  [Finishing  with  quick  re 
proach] 

AMES.     Why,  of  course  not.     Not  at — no!     I  wouldn't! 

ISABEL  [approvingly].  That's  all  I  meant!  You  wouldn't! 
When  you've  done  a  thing,  you're  the  sort  of  man  that  stands 
by  it,  no  matter  what! 

AMES  [astounded,  breaking  out].  My  soul!  I  believe 
you're  making  fun  of  me ! 

ISABEL.     Why,  of  course  I'm  not!     Not  at  all! 

AMES  [with  plaintive  vehemence].  But  you  say  one  thing 
and  you  seem  to  mean  something  else,  and  you  seem  to  mean 
one  thing  and  you  say  another!  No  wonder  I  can't  say  any 
thing  but  "Not  at  all"  and  "Nothing  at  all"!  [Crosses 
right.] 

ISABEL.  But,  don't  you  see,  I'm  just  trying  to  get  us  better 
acquainted  with  each  other!  I  think  we  ought  to  be,  don't 
you? 

AMES  [subsiding  to  feebleness].  I  should  think  it  would  be 
a  good  thing,  yes,  indeed. 

ISABEL.  Let  me  see.  I've  told  you  why  I  never  married. 
Isn't  there  something  in  particular — isn't  there  something  else 
you'd  like  to  know  ?  Can't  you  think  of  anything  at  all  ?  [At 
each  one  of  these  interrogatories  he  seems  about  to  speak;  then 
checks  himself  and  dumbly  shakes  his  head.  She  insists] 
You're  sure  there  isn't  anything?  [She  comes  down  closer, 
facing  him.  He  shakes  his  head  again]  And  you  feel  pro* 
foundry  happy? 


330  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

AMES  [with  a  manful  effort].     Yes,  indeed! 

ISABEL  [with  a  culmination  of  bitterness  but  not  in  a  bitter 
tone].  I  believe  that's  the  noblest  effort  I  ever  heard  any  man 
make!  [Emotion  chokes  her  a  very  little  bit.] 

AMES.    Effort? 

ISABEL  [covering  her  emotion  by  speaking  quickly,  but  her 
voice  shakes  a  little.  She  goes  up  center].  Yes!  It  was! 
But  don't  be  afraid!  Mr.  Ames!  I  really  didn't  expect  you 
to  be  different  from  other  men;  you've  done  your  best  and  you 
shall  have  your  reward! 

AMES.     What  "reward"? 

ISABEL  [a  little  chokingly,  as  she  looks  off  up  right].  I 
think  Johnnie  White's  bringing  it.  I  think  it's  a  message. 
[She  turns  aside  with  some  pathos.] 

AMES.  What  "  message  "  ?  [JOHNNIE  enters  gloomily  up 
right.  He  wears  an  old  knickerbocker  suit,  rough,  muddy 
shoes,  and  he  leaves  an  old  rod  and  basket  near  the  door.  He 
comes  down  center  and  looks  coldly  at  AMES.] 

JOHNNIE  [with  a  movement  of  his  head  to  up  right,  speaks 
to  AMES  deliberately].  She's — uh — she's  sittin'  out  on  a  limb 
of  a  willow  tree  that  sticks  out  over  the  water  and  she  wants 
you  to  come  and  look  at  her. 

AMES  [frowning].  Who's  sitting  on  a  limb  and  wants  me 
to  come  and  look  at  her? 

JOHNNIE.     Her. 

AMES.     "Her"? 

JOHNNIE  [coldly].  I  expect  you  know  I  mean  Florence  by 
this  time,  Mr.  Ames. 

AMES  [incredulous"].     She  sent  you  for  me? 

JOHNNIE  [with  the  same  even  gloom].  She  got  herself  out 
on  this  limb  and  she  looked  over  and  took  a  look  at  herself  in 
the  water.  Then  she  said,  "  Well,  I  do  look  right  cunning  out 
here,  don't  I  ?  "  "  Are  we  goin'  to  do  any  fishin'  ?  "  I  asked 
her.  Then  she  said,  "  I  wish  Mr.  Ames  was  'here."  "  What 
for?  To  look  at  you  on  that  limb?"  I  asked  her.  "I'll 
go  get  him  for  you."  "  Don't  let  him  know  I  sent  for  him," 
she  told  me.  "  No,  I  won't,"  I  told  her.  "  He  wouldn't  even 
guess  when  he  comes  out  and  looks  at  you  that  you  want  him 
to!  Oh,  no;  he  wouldn't!"  That  limb  she's  sittin'  on,  it's 
pretty  old,  and  it  might  not  hold  her  up  too  long,  so  don't  you 
guess  you'd  better  go,  Mr.  Ames? 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  331 

AMES.    I  ? 

ISABEL  [gently].     Yes,  please  do. 

AMES  [a  little  sharply,  to  JOHNNIE].  I  think  it  would  be 
much  better  if  you'd  go  back  and  get  her  down  from  that  limb 
and  go  ahead  with  your  fishing,  Mr.  White.  [Turns  away  to 
right.] 

JOHNNIE  [still  in  gloom'].  Fishin'?  She  never  meant  that 
kind.  I  think  you  better  go,  because — from  what  I  know  of 
her  she'll  sit  there  either  till  you  come  and  see  how  cunning 
she  looks  or  else  falls  in  the  water. 

ISABEL.     Won't  you  please  go  and  bring  her  in? 

AMES  [doggedly].  Oh,  certainly,  if  you  ask  me.  [He  goes 
abruptly  up  right.] 

ISABEL  [hurriedly,  graciously].  Of  course  I  don't  mean  for 
you  to  hurry  back  with  her.  [To  piano.] 

AMES  [with  some  coldness].  Thank  you!  [Exits  up  right. 
ISABEL  looks  after  him  rather  pathetically] 

JOHNNIE.  She's — she's  goin'  to  get  him,  Miss  Stuart.  [Up 
center.] 

ISABEL  [turning  down  blankly.  Sits  right  of  table  left. 
JOHNNIE  comes  down  center].  What? 

JOHNNIE.  She's  made  up  her  mind,  and  there's  just  one 
thing  my  life's  taught  me  and  that  is  when  a  girl  like  her 
really  starts  after  an  older  man — well,  you  know  she's  goin'  to 
make  him  lift  her  down  from  that  tree. 

ISABEL  [quietly].     Oh,  yes,  certainly. 

JOHNNIE  [with  a  sudden  change,  coming  to  her  solemnly]* 
Miss  Stuart;  I'd  like  to  see  a  great  deal  more  of  you  in  the — 
in  the  future — as — it — were — than  we  have  in  the — in  the  past 
as — it — were. 

ISABEL  [quiet  wonder].  Why,  what  are  you  talking  about, 
Johnnie  ? 

JOHNNIE.  What  I've  been  thinkin',  why,  you  take  a  per 
son's  character,  especially  you  take  a  woman's  character,  and  no 
matter  what's  the  difference  between  her  age  and  some  younger 
man  that  thinks  a  lot  of  her  character  age,  because  she's  settled 
down  and  quit  her  foolishness  the  way  you  have,  Miss  Stuart, 
well,  it's  the  difference  between  a  character  like  that  and  one 
that's  got  to  make  a  collection  of  every  old  man  she  seest  no 
matter  what  his  age  is,  so  what  I  mean;  why,  this  bein'  used 
just  for  a  messenger  boy,  I  better  cure  myself  and  get  over  it, 


332  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

and  the  best  way'd  be  to  find  some  character  I  could  look  up  to 
and  get  a  sacred  feeling  about. 

ISABEL  [incredulous].     Do  you  mean  me,  Johnnie? 

JOHNNIE.  Yes'm;  that's  why  I'd  like  to  see  more  of  you  in 
the  future — as — it — were.  Will  you  ? 

ISABEL.     Johnnie  White,  what  are  you  up  to? 

JOHNNIE.     Well,  you've  read  Henry  Esmond — or  have  you? 

ISABEL.     Yes. 

JOHNNIE.  Well,  he  had  that  sacred  feeling  the  way  a 
younger  man  does  about  a  woman  some  older  than  he  was, 
wasn't  he,  didn't  he?  [Affirmative.'] 

ISABEL  [she  jumps  up}.  You  funny,  funny  boy!  You 
think  you'll  make  Florence  jealous! 

JOHNNIE  [earnestly].  No'm;  I  don't  care  much  whether 
she  is  or  not,  not  much.  I  mean  it! 

ISABEL  [laughing] .  You  mean  you're  a  little  cross  with  her 
for  a  few  minutes,  till  she  brings  you  around. 

JOHNNIE.  No'm,  I  mean  it!  I  expect  it  would  do  her 
good —  D'you  see  the  way  she  looked  at  me  when  I  said  I 
preferred  to,  this  morning?  But  what  I  mean  is,  about  you, 
why,  I  mean  it! 

ISABEL  [still  amused}.  You  don't  mean  you've  got  a  sacred 
feeling  about  me,  Johnnie — White! 

JOHNNIE.  Well,  there  aren't  many  people'd  understand 
but  I'd  like  to  think  I've  got  a  kind  o'  sacred  feeling  about  you, 
instead  of  just  a  messenger  boy,  because  I  look  up  to  you,  be 
cause  you're  so  different  from  her.  Won't  you  let  me? 

ISABEL  [laughing,  but  rather  touched}.     What  nonsense! 

JOHNNIE  [pathetically  in  earnest}.  Yes,  but  won't  you? 
You  know  how  she  acts.  Wont  you  let  me? 

ISABEL  [with  amused  indulgence,  putting  her  arm  lightly, 
affectionately,  round  his  shoulders].  Why,  yes,  if  you  want 
to,  you  dear  thing!  [FLORENCE  enters  briskly  up  right  just 
on  the  moment,  but  halts  abruptly.  She  wears  a  "  fishing  cos 
tume  "  of  a  most  effective  kind.] 

JOHNNIE  [fervently].  I  do  want  to!  [He  takes  her  other 
hand.] 

FLORENCE  [laughing  rather  loudly,  with  some  disquiet  of 
mind].  Well;  of  all  the  foolish  sights — what  are  you  two 
doing? 

JOHNNIE  [giving  her  a  very  short  glance  over  his  shoulder, 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  333 

speaks  very  gently  and  solemnly  to  ISABEL].  Let's  sit  over 
there.  [He  means  the  sofa,  across  the  room.  They  are  left 
center.  He  leads  her.  ISABEL  is  controlling  amusement,  but 
is  rather  tenderly  pleased  and  touched  by  JOHNNIE'S  ab 
surdity.] 

ISABEL  [as  they  move  toward  right].     Where  is  Mr.  Ames? 

FLORENCE.  He's  bringin'  my  fishin'  traps.  [Then  sharply.] 
What  is  the — ? 

JOHNNIE.     Lean  on  me.     I  prefer  it! 

FLORENCE.     Is  Aunt  Isabel's  rheumatism  worse? 

ISABEL.     Oh,  no!     [Emphatically  on  "oh."] 

JOHNNIE  [quietly].  No.  It  isn't  lameness.  [He  looks 
continually  at  ISABEL.] 

FLORENCE.     Then  what  is  it? 

ISABEL  [as  they  reach  the  sofa].  Did  you  want  me  to  sit 
here  with  you,  Johnnie? 

JOHNNIE  [solemnly].  Yes.  Let's  sit  here.  This  is  the 
place  I  meant.  [They  sit] 

FLORENCE.  Well,  of  all  the  foolish  looking  people  I  ever 
saw —  [She  is  moving  up  center  as  if  to  go  out,  but  stops  as 
JOHNNIE  speaks.  Then  goes  down  right  to  chair  below  fire 
place] 

JOHNNIE.  She  couldn't  understand.  It's  the  difference  in 
your  character.  She  couldn't  ever  understand.  [ISABEL  cov 
ers  her  ?nouth  with  her  hand  and  clenched  kerchief] 

FLORENCE  [puzzled  and  beginning  to  be  annoyed].  What 
are  you  two — it  really  was  a  little  queer,  Aunt  Isabel ! 

ISABEL.     What  was  queer,  dear? 

FLORENCE  [laughing  rather  uncomfortably].  Why,  to  walk 
in  here  and  find  you  locked  in  an  embrace  with  Johnnie  White ! 

ISABEL  [choking  down  her  amusement].  Oh,  dear!  Did 
you  see  that,  Florence? 

FLORENCE  [still  laughing  thinly].  And  after  last  night — 
well,  I  guess  the  less  said  about  that  the  better ! 

ISABEL.     Yes,  indeed,  dear! 

FLORENCE  [getting  sharper].  It  seems  to  me  your  conduct 
is  certainly  open  to  interpretation. 

ISABEL.     Yes,  Florence,  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  wild  thing! 

FLORENCE.  Why,  you've  got  poor  Mr.  Ames  so  upset  he 
isn't  normal. 

ISABEL.     Isn't  he?     [With  more  serious  eagerness] 


334  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

FLORENCE.  I  happened  to  be  on  the  branch  of  a  tree  and 
he  just  said  to  "  come  down  and  go  in  the  house,  you  were 
worrying  about  me."  [She  imitates  a  brisk,  rather  peremptory, 
tone.] 

ISABEL  [quickly"}.     Did  he? 

FLORENCE  [not  "ugly"  but  reproachful}.  I  don't  believe 
you  want  anybody  to  be  nice  to  me;  you  just  want  to  flirt  with 
every  man  in  the  world,  yourself!  [Starts  up  right.] 

ISABEL.     But  I  don't  know  'em  all! 

JOHNNIE.     She  couldn't  understand! 

FLORENCE  [very  sharply,  as  this  repetition  goads  her}.  I 
couldn't  understand  what?  [Comes  back  down  right] 

JOHNNIE  [to  her  coldly].  Did  you  ever  read  Henry  Es 
mond? 

FLORENCE.     No,  I  didn't!     [Sits  on  arm  of  armchair] 

JOHNNIE.  I  expect  not.  You  aren't  intellectual  particu 
larly,  Florence.  It's  by  William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

FLORENCE.     Well,  what  o'  that? 

JOHNNIE.  Oh,  nothing.  Only  he  was  kind  o'  carried  away 
with  a  light  weight  for  a  while. 

FLORENCE.     This  William  Makepeace  was? 

JOHNNIE  [serenely].  No.  Henry  Esmond  was.  It  didn't 
last  very  long.  Some  novels  are  a  good  deal  like  life.  [To 
ISABEL.]  She  couldn't  understand. 

FLORENCE  [raising  her  voice  incredulously].  Are  you  in 
earnest? 

JOHNNIE  [ignoring  her].  If  she  lived  to  be  a  hundred  she 
couldn't  understand,  could  she? 

ISABEL  [whimsically,  gently,  to  him].  I  don't  believe  she 
could !  [AMES  enters  up  right,  carrying  FLORENCE'S  rods  and 
basket] 

FLORENCE  [stung].  No!  Well,  if  I  do  live  to  be  a  hun 
dred  I  hope  I'll  understand  how  to  behave  at  that  age!  [AMES 
turns  to  go  out  again,  right,  as  if  to  avoid  a  family  scene, 
saying,  "  I  beg  your  pardon."] 

ISABEL  [seeing  him].  Oh,  don't  go,  Mr.  Ames.  [AMES 
comes  down  center.]  It's  nothing.  [She  is  gently  cheerful] 

JOHNNIE  [to  FLORENCE].     Aren't  you  ashamed  any? 

FLORENCE.  Me?  For  saying  if  /  live  to  be  a  hundred  I 
hope  I'll  know  better  than  to  let  mere  adolescents  talk  mush 
to  me!  Golly,  no! 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  335 

ISABEL  [to  AMES].     I'm  afraid  she  means  her  great-aunt. 

FLORENCE.  I  should  say  I  do!!  [Crosses  center.]  Why, 
last  month  there  was  a  three-times  widower  hangin'  round  here  ; 
he  wasn't  four  minutes  under  eighty,  and  a  week  before  it  was 
a  child  about  nineteen.  Last  night  it  was  Mr.  Ames  and  now 
it's  Johnnie  White;  and  they  began  with  a  fond  embrace!  I 
saw  it! 

ISABEL  [to  AMES].    Yes,  she  did! 

FLORENCE.  Sometimes  she  doesn't  act  more'n  sixteen! 
[Crosses  right,  back  of  sofa.] 

ISABEL  [rises].     There,  Mr.  Ames,  you  have  me! 

AMES.     I  beg  your  pardon ! 

ISABEL.  My  portrait!  Drawn  by  my  great-mecel  I  flirt 
with  three-times  widowers  and  with  children  of  nineteen  and 
with  you  and  with  Johnnie  White,  and  Johnnie  and  I  began 
with  a  fond  embrace.  To  finish  it!  I'm  a  hundred  years  old 
and  I'm  sixteen  years  old!  So  there,  my  friend,  you  know  me! 
[She  curtsies  to  him,  and  moves  rather  quickly  toward  the 
door,  left,  limping  a  little.] 

JOHNNIE  [quickly,  with  a  movement  toward  her].  Won't 
you  come  back  and  sit  here  some  more? 

ISABEL  [checking  him,  smiling].  No;  not  now.  But  you 
can  run  home  and  change  your  clothes  and  come  back  to 
dinner. 

JOHNNIE  [solemnly  eager].     Can  I? 

ISABEL.  Yes,  you  can ;  and  I'll  be  waiting  for  you,  Johnnie 
White!  [She  gives  AMES  a,  little  sudden  bob  of  a  nod,  which 
seems  to  daze  him,  and  exits  quickly,  left.  AMES  sits  blankly — 
right  of  table  left.] 

FLORENCE  [right].  Well,  of  all  the  darn  conduct  I  ever  in 
my  life — 

JOHNNIE  [center.  Coldly].  Of  course  it's  mysterious  to  you; 
you  couldn't  even  be  expected  to  understand.  [Goes  up  center, ,] 

FLORENCE  [coming  a  step  toward  him,  irritated,  speaking  all 
in  a  breath'}.  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  [Follows 
JOHNNIE  up  center.] 

JOHNNIE.     Nothing  you'd  be  able  to  under — 

FLORENCE  [almost  shouting].  Stop  it!  If  you  say  that  to 
me  again — 

JOHNNIE.     I  want  to  say  just  one  last  thing  to  you! 

FLORENCE.     Oh,  you  do,  do  you? 


336  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

JOHNNIE.  It's  simply  just  only  this :  Hark!  A  man  really 
does  like  to  have  somebody  to  look  up  to! 

FLORENCE.  Well,  you  don't  haf  to  be  silly  about  everybody 
you  look  up  to,  do  you? 

JOHNNIE  [with  a  pleasant  thought  about  it  and  the  manner 
assuming  that  this  thought  is  beyond  her}.  Well,  I  don't 
know.  I  might.  Why,  yes.  Yes — I  think  a  man  might  feel 
a  good  deal  that  way. 

FLORENCE  [incredulously].     What? 

JOHNNIE  [easily,  having  put  her  in  her  place].  Excuse  me, 
I  think  that's  about  all  I  care  to  say  for  the  time  being.  [He 
goes  up  and  gets  his  rods  and  basket] 

FLORENCE.     Why,  you  darned  little — 

JOHNNIE  [with  easy  superior  carelessness,  but  not  smiling]. 
I  may  see  you  later  in  the  evening  for  a  moment  or  so,  if  I 
have  time.  [Near  door  up  right] 

FLORENCE  [quickly,  sharply].  Why,  you  just  told  her  you're 
coming  back  to — 

JOHNNIE  [in  the  same  tone  as  his  last  speech].  To  dinner — 
yes — yes.  I  said  1  may  see  you  across  the  table  or  somewhere, 
prob'ly ;  thanking  you  for  your  kind  attention,  I  beg  to  remain, 
et  cetera,  et  cetera.  [Exits  up  right  without  smiling.  Start  to 
dim  outside  lights.] 

FLORENCE.  Why,  you —  [Then  turns  indignantly  to 
AMES.  Comes  down  center]  Did  you  ever  know  any  other 
girl  that  had  an  aunt  like  my  aunt? 

AMES  [shaking  his  head  seriously].     No — no — I  never  did! 

FLORENCE  [gesturing  to  the  door  of  JOHNNIE'S  exit].  Why, 
even  that  poor  little  child — it's  terrible!  What  do  you  think 
about  her? 

AMES.  "WThat  do  I" — I  don't  know;  I  don't  know!  I 
don't  know  anything  about  her!  Not  a  single  thing!  [The 
scene  is  rather  quick] 

FLORENCE  [viciously].  Well,  I  think  I  know  one  thing 
about  her. 

AMES.  You're  her  niece  and  you  think  you  know  one  thing 
about  her! 

FLORENCE.  I  believe  she's  been  a  coquette  from  the  day  she 
was  born! 

AMES  [repeating],  "  From  the  day  she  was — "  [He  jumps 
up  sharply.]  Have  you  happened  to  see  the  Family  Bible? 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  337 

FLORENCE.     What  Family  Bible? 

AMES.     Your  family's.     The  one  they  keep  in  here ! 

FLORENCE.  Well,  for  heaven's  sake,  what  would  I  be  doin' 
with  it? 

AMES.     I  don't  know. 

FLORENCE.     What  do  you  want  it  for? 

AMES.  What  do  I  want  it  for!  [He  recovers  himself. ] 
I  wanted  to  see  if  it's  a  first  edition!  I  collect  first  editions! 

FLORENCE.     You  collect  first  editions  of  the  Bible? 

AMES.    Why,  no. 

FLORENCE.  I  thought  not.  [Sits  on  sofa.]  Mr.  Ames,  do 
you  believe  an  older  man's  feeling  for  a  younger  woman 
is  deeper  than  a  younger  woman's  feeling  for  an  older 
man? 

AMES.     I  don't  know. 

FLORENCE.     Won't  you  sit  here? 

AMES.     Very  well.     [Sits  on  sofa,  left  of  FLORENCE.] 

FLORENCE.  Before  I  settle  down  or  anything,  I  think  I 
ought  to  have  the  experience  of  a  serious  affair  with  some  older 
man.  [Start  to  dim  the  stage  lights  here,  very  slowly.] 

AMES.     Oh! 

FLORENCE  [giving  him  a  lovely  smile].  Oh,  dear.  I  wish 
I  had  my  slippers  on  instead  of  these.  [She  holds  up  her 
booted  feet  plaintively.] 

AMES  [rising  nervously].  Oh,  I  think  you  look  very  well 
in  boots! 

FLORENCE  [frowning] .  They're  so  heavy.  I  do  wish  I  had 
my —  [She  is  interrupted  by  the  opening  of  the  door,  left. 
MATTIE  enters  there,  bringing  a  pair  of  pretty  patent  leather 
slippers.  FLORENCE,  staring.]  Well,  for  heaven's  sake;  just 
as  I  was  sayin*  I  wanted  'em.  [AMES  sees  the  slippers  in 
MATTIE'S  hand,  turns  and  strides  hurriedly  up  to  the  sun- 
room.  FLORENCE  goes  on.]  How  in  the —  [She  checks  her 
self  and  at  a  thought  speaks  decisively.]  Mattie!  That's  no 
mere  coincidence! 

MATTIE  [bringing  the  slippers  and  setting  them  on  the  floor 
before  FLORENCE].  No'm.  Your  Aunt  Isabel  told  me  to 
listen  at  the  door — 

FLORENCE.  What?  [AMES  turns  sharply  and  stares  at 
MATTIE.] 

MATTIE  [going  on  casually].     Your  Aunt  Isabel  told  me  to 


338  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

listen  at  the  door  till  I  heard  you  begin  talkin'  about  changin' 
your  footwear  and  then  to  bring  'em  in  for  you. 

FLORENCE.     She  told  you  to  listen  at  the — 

MATTIE  [casually'}.  Yes'm;  she  says  to  be  perfeckly  honora 
ble  and  pay  no  attention  till  I  heard  the  word  "  slippers,"  and 
she  says  the  rest  of  the  conversation  wouldn't  be  worth  my 
while,  anyway.  [Exits  left.} 

FLORENCE  [frowning,  puzzled.  Stares  thoughtfully  at  the 
closing  door,  then  turns  front}.  Well,  if  that  isn't  queer! 
[Emphatically.} 

AMES.  No!  It's  no  queerer  than  anything  else!  [Coming 
down  right.} 

FLORENCE.     Well,  after  all,  now  that  my  slippers  are  here — 

AMES  [nervously}.  I  don't  think  I'd — I  don't  think  I'd 
better ! 

FLORENCE  [rising,  concentrating  disapprovingly}.  Well, 
what  do  you  think? 

AMES  [with  vehemence}.  Nothing!  [He  goes  up  to  the 
sun-room.  The  light  outside  has  grown  rosier  and  inside  it  is 
a  little  darker.  The  glow  from  the  fireplace  brightens.  AUNT 
ELLEN  enters,  left.  She  has  changed  her  dress  for  a  dark  silk, 
which  has  a  suggestion  of  state  about  it.} 

AUNT  ELLEN  [left}.  Florence,  do  you  consider  that  an 
appropriate  costume  for  the  drawing-room? 

FLORENCE  [right.     Peevishly}.     It  ain't  one! 

AUNT  ELLEN.     "  Ain't "  ?     "  Ain't  "  ? 

FLORENCE.  No,  it  ain't!  It  ain't  a  drawing-room;  it's  a 
living-room !  If  people  can't  be  young  again,  anyhow  they  can 
be  modern ! 

AUNT  ELLEN  [turning  to  go  out  again,  left}.  I  will  with 
draw  from  the  room  until  you — 

FLORENCE  [picking  up  her  slippers}.  Murder!  Don't  go — 
I  apologize,  gosh — I  apologize  without  the  gosh — I'm  going — • 
Oh,  murder,  I'm  tired! 

AUNT  ELLEN.  Tired!  Why,  you  haven't  been  doing  any 
thing  compared  to  your  Aunt  Isabel. 

FLORENCE  [going  slowly  and  wearily  up  left  with  a  gloomy 
sigh}.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  just  spent  my  life  dressing!  It's 
all  so  savorless!  [Suddenly  she  begins  to  sing  brightly,  breaks 
into  a  skip,  calls  back  sweetly:}  "See  you  later,  William!" 
[Exits  up  left,  skipping  and  singing.  AMES  is  surprised. 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  339 

AUNT  ELLEN  looks  after  FLORENCE,  disapprovingly,  very 
slightly  shaking  her  head.] 

AUNT  ELLEN.  You  must  overlook  it,  William.  Good 
gracious!  I  mean —  [She  corrects  herself  hastily.]  Mr. 
Ames ! 

AMES.     Oh,  don't  bother. 

AUNT  ELLEN  [left  center].  She  belongs  to  a  very  different 
generation  from  the  one  you  and  I  grew  up  with. 

AMES  [right  center.  Set  aback  by  her  "you  and  I"].  Ah 
— yes.  Yes,  indeed! 

AUNT  ELLEN  [going  slowly  toward  right].  You  and  I 
were  taught  a  very  different  behavior  toward  our  elders. 

AMES  [gloomily].  Yes,  the — the  previous — ah — generations 
had  a  very  different  training,  though  this  one  certainly  has 
charm,  too.  I  wonder  how  many  of — uh — us,  though,  can 
remember  just  what  we  were  like  in  our  own  youth. 

AUNT  ELLEN  [somewhat  surprised].  Why,  I  recall  my 
own,  perfectly. 

AMES  [brightening].  That's  remarkab-ully —  [He  changes 
the  word  to  "  remarkably  "  with  a  slight  vocal  struggle  in  the 
midst  of  it]  Pleasant.  Your — ah — aunt,  Miss  Stuart  does, 
too,  and  about  public  events  she  remembers  wonderfully;  we 
were  reminiscing  this  morning;  all  about  Hayes — and — 
Wheeler  and  Samuel  J.  Tilden.  Do  you  happen  to  remember 
that  campaign? 

AUNT  ELLEN  [looking  at  him  over  her  shoulder;  she  is 
touching  some  music  sheets  on  the  piano].  Why,  of  course. 

AMES  [rather  dismayed].  Well,  she  said  she  thought  it  was 
a  terrible  thing,  Hayes — and — Wheeler's  not  getting  elected, 

AUNT  ELLEN  [with  spirit].  They  were  elected.  Anybody 
that  says  they  weren't  is  a — a  despicable  Democrat! 

AMES  [hastily].  Oh,  I  think  they  were  myself.  [Feebly 
hopeful]  I  only  wondered — I  wasn't  just  able  to  recall  what 
year  that  campaign  was — -.  [He  puts  a  rising,  plaintive  inter 
rogative  upon  this] 

AUNT  ELLEN.  It  was  in  1876,  the  same  year  as  the  Phila 
delphia  Exposition. 

AMES.  In  1876 — oh,  yes;  it  was — ah — a  historical  refer 
ence — I  see. 

AUNT  ELLEN.  Historical?  I  went  to  that  exposition  my 
self. 


340  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

AMES  [he  looks  at  his  watch  with  another  feeble  murmur  of 
plaintive  laughter].  I'm  afraid  I— I  suppose  I'd  better  be — 
yes — ah,  I  suppose  I'd  better —  [He  goes  awkwardly  left  and 
glances  upward,  thinking  of  going  to  his  room  upstairs.]  I'd 
better — ah — I  suppose  I'd  better  make — ah —  [At  the  door.] 
Well,  I— 

AUNT  ELLEN  [inquiring  rather  shortly].     Yes? 

AMES  [wiping  his  forehead  hurriedly].  Well — thank  you. 
Uh —  [Exit,  dazedly,  left.  AUNT  ELLEN  sits  at  the  piano 
and  begins  to  play  rather  softly;  she  has  a  fine  "  touch  "  and 
plays  with  feeling.  The  light  outdoors  is  the  final  rosiness  of 
sunset;  the  firelight  sends  forth  a  broad  rosy  glow;  but  the  rest 
of  the  scene  is  darkened  as  she  plays  through  an  old-fashioned 
melody.  She  has  played  about  a  dozen  bars  when  a  figure 
enters  up  left  in  the  sun-room.  It  is  ISABEL,  but  she  is  not 
distinctly  seen.  The  glow  up,  beyond  the  sun-room  windows, 
is  behind  her,  and  it  is  not  until  she  reaches  the  table,  left  center, 
that  the  firelight  falls  upon  her.  She  has  changed  her  dress 
for  another  suggesting  <a  gayer  "  smartness "  than  that  previ 
ously  worn  in  the  act.  She  still  suggests  the  slight  lameness. 
She  is  carrying  a  large  and  heavy  old  book.  When  she  reaches 
the  table,  the  firelight  falls  on  her  and  we  should  get  a  gleam 
of  jewels.  She  opens  the  Bible  upon  the  table,  and  lets  it  re 
main  open.] 

AUNT  ELLEN  [as  ISABEL  reaches  the  table].  Is  that  you, 
Isabel?  [She  does  not  turn  her  head.] 

ISABEL.  Yes,  go  on  playing,  dear.  [She  crosses  to  the  fire 
place,  using  her  cane,  and  sits,  gazing  into  the  fire.  There  is 
a  pause,  the  piano  continuing,  and  then  their  talk  goes  on 
through  the  playing] 

AUNT  ELLEN.  My  old  tunes  are  better  than  Florence's, 
aren't  they?  I  think  music  was  best  of  all  in  my  day. 

ISABEL  [gently].  No.  It  was  best  in  my  day.  [Crosses 
right] 

AUNT  ELLEN.  No ;  I  think  it  began  to  fall  off  by  the  time 
you  came  along.  Music  was  best  when —  My  day  was  the 
best. 

ISABEL  [sits  in  armchair  at  fireplace].  Florence  will  say 
that  some  day.  Music  is  best  in  each  one's  "  day."  What  a 
pleasant  thing  that  is;  that  we  all  of  us  see,  afterward,  that 
our  first  youth  was  best: 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  341 

AUNT  ELLEN.     It  isn't  pleasant  to  see  anything  afterward. 

ISABEL.  Well,  then,  we  can  always  look  forward  to — 
something — can't  we? 

AUNT  ELLEN  [struck  by  this}.  Oh!  [Her  hands  pause  on 
the  keys  and  she  glances  round  for  a  moment  at  ISABEL.]  Oh, 
I  understand  what  you  mean.  He  was  in  here  a  while  ago 
trying  to  find  out.  You  know  what  /  mean. 

ISABEL  [serenely].     He  didn't  ask  you,  though. 

AUNT  ELLEN.  No.  You  can  see  he'd  be  nice  under  any 
circumstances. 

ISABEL  [with  a  little  regret].  "Nice"?  Why,  he's  the 
bravest  man  I've  ever  seen.  He's  too  plucky  to  withdraw — 
some  remarks  he  made  to  me  last  night! 

AUNT  ELLEN  [plays  a  bar  or  two;  then  gravely].  I  won 
der  if  I  oughtn't  to  stop  calling  you  "  Aunt "  Isabel. 

ISABEL.     Why?     I  am  your  aunt. 

AUNT  ELLEN.     My  half-aunt. 

ISABEL.     Isn't  that  plenty? 

AUNT  ELLEN.  I've  always  liked  calling  you  "  Aunt  Isa 
bel  "  for  one  reason ;  nobody'd  think  I'm  too  old  to  be  alive 
while  I've  still  got  an  aunt.  But  it  mightn't  be  consistent  now. 

ISABEL.     Why  mightn't  it? 

AUNT  ELLEN  [very  seriously,  not  playing  for  the  moment]. 
Well,  if  anything  should  happen — I  really  shouldn't  know  how 
to  begin  calling  Mr.  Ames  "  Uncle  William." 

ISABEL.     Never  mind,  dear.     It  wont  happen. 

AUNT  ELLEN  [stops  playing  and  turns].  I  never  could 
call  Mr.  Ames  "  Uncle."  [She  is  very  serious.] 

ISABEL  [thoughtfully].  You  might  call  him  "Nephew." 
[Rises.] 

AUNT  ELLEN.     Pooh!     [She  plays  softly.] 

ISABEL.  Why  not?  Isn't  Florence  what  all  men  want? 
Think  of  father ;  mother  was  only  nineteen  or  so  when  he  mar 
ried  her,  and  he  was  sixty-five. 

AUNT  ELLEN.  Poor  grandfather's  weakness  in  marrying 
a  girl  as  your  mother  was  oughtn't  to  be.  [She  plays  again.] 

ISABEL  [sits  on  sofa].  Yes;  but  there  it  is.  We're  like 
Portia's  caskets,  we  women,  and  the  men  come  to  choose  with 
out  knowing  what  they'll  find.  Silver-and-gold,  that's  first 
youth,  and  it  ought  to  have  been  written  of  that  silver-and-gold 
casket:  "Who  chooses  me  shall  choose  what  every  man  de- 


342  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

sires  " !     But  if  any  man  comes  to  choose  me — well,  a  woman 
past  twenty-eight  is  a  thousand — I'll  show  him  only  lead ! 

AUNT  ELLEN.  I  never  heard  before  of  a  woman  that 
teased  a  man  to  make  him  think  she  was  older  than  she  was. 
And  if  it  isn't  to  make  him  feel  better  when  he  finds  out — 

ISABEL.     No,  I've  just  told  you  why. 

AUNT  ELLEN.  Oh,  you  can  give  all  the  pretty  reasons  you 
want  to,  but  I  know.  You  thought  you'd  test  him,  and 
you've  been  punishing  him  for  even  daring  to  wonder  how  old 
you  are.  [ISABEL  rises  to  protest,  saying,  ff  Oh,  I — "]  And 
he's  beginning  to  suspect.  Think  how  pretty  dancing  was  in 
my  day.  [She  begins  to  play  an  old  waltz.] 

ISABEL.     They  were  pretty,  the  old  waltzes. 

AUNT  ELLEN  [her  memory  of  the  music  faltering].  How 
did  that  go  there?  [She  tries  to  remember  by  singing  it.~\ 
La,  la,  la — 

ISABEL  [rising].  No,  it's  this.  [She  hums  it  and  beats 
time,  moving  a  few  waltz  steps  but  keeping  to  a  hint  of 
her  lameness.]  Yes.  That's  it.  [She  hums  and  begins 
to  waltz  slowly  in  the  same  manner  as  before.  ISABEL  falls 
a  little  and  <a  little  more  into  the  spirit  of  the  waltz,  never 
wholly  abandoning  the  hint  of  lameness;  the  waltz-time  is 
rather  slow  but  quickens  a  little  and  almost  imperceptibly. 
ISABEL  moves  in  and  out  of  the  firelight  glow  as  she  dances 
and  her  scarf  floats,  following  her.  JOHNNIE  WHITE  enters, 
at  the  door,  left,  and  stands  looking  on  without  surprise. 
ISABEL  sees  him,  but  only  nods  <and  continues.  He  wears  a 
dinner  coat.] 

JOHNNIE.     Don't  you  want  a  partner? 

ISABEL  [coming  toward  him].  Johnnie  White,  do  you 
know  the  old  waltz? 

JOHNNIE.  Yes'm.  [Without  losing  her  step  she  lets  her 
left  hand  fall  lightly  upon  his  shoulder;  he  catches  her  step  and 
they  dance.  The  waltz-time  is  now  a  little  quicker,  and  AUNT 
ELLEN  plays  it  with  great  pleasure.  ISABEL  dances  with  a 
greater  •abandon  until  she  has  almost  forgotten  the  hint  of 
lameness.  The  sun-room  is  so  dark  that  the  opening  of  the 
door  up  left  is  unperceived.  AMES,  who  has  changed  to  a 
dinner  coat,  enters  there,  and  stands  dumbfounded.  FLORENCE 
enters  just  behind  him  and  comes  forward.] 

FLORENCE   [exclaiming  loudly.     Crosses  to  up  right  above 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  343 

fireplace].    Well,  for  heaven's  sake!    What  are  you  doin'  now? 

ISABEL  [startled  as  she  sees  AMES].  Oh!  [She  at  once 
remembers  her  lameness.  They  stop  dancing  down  right. 
ISABEL  goes  to  center.  JOHNNIE  stays  down  right,  below  fire 
place^ 

ISABEL.  I — I'm  afraid  I  forgot  myself  for  the  moment — 
I — you  oughtn't  to  have  tempted  me,  Johnnie.  It  might  be — 
dangerous — 

AMES  [striding  down  to  her].  Will  you  dance  with  me — 
Isabel? 

ISABEL  [a  little  breathless}.     What? 

AMES.  Will  you  dance  with  me — Isabel?  [ISABEL  looks 
at  him  incredulously.} 

ISABEL.     Dance  with  you,  Mr.  Ames? 

AMES.     Yes.     I  remember  the  old  waltzes. 

ISABEL.  But  perhaps — you  don't  realize  how  old  they  are — 
or  how  lame  I  am? 

AMES.     I  don't  care.    Won't  you  dance  with  me? 

ISABEL.  Yes.  [She  puts  her  left  arm  on  his  shoulder,  as 
she  did  with  JOHNNIE,  and  with  a  much  more  pronounced 
lameness  than  before,  and  in  very  slow  time,  they  begin  to 
waltz,  AUNT  ELLEN  playing  softly.  As  they  dance.}  So  you 
and  I  are  in  the  fashion  again.  They  say  everybody  dances  all 
the  time  nowadays. 

AMES  [with  profound  earnestness}.  I  don't  know  anything 
except  when  I  saw  you  dancing  I  wanted  to  dance  with  you. 
I  do. 

ISABEL.    Do  you?    No  matter  how  slowly? 

AMES  [crossly}.     Yes,  I  do! 

ISABEL.     But  Florence  would  like  to  dance  with  you  again. 

AMES.     What  nonsense! 

ISABEL  [suddenly  radiant}.  Can't  you  play  any  faster  than 
'that,  Ellen?  Why  don't  you  turn  the  lights  up,  Florence? 
[AuNT  ELLEN  plays  suddenly  with  greater  spirit.  FLORENCE 
snaps  on  the  lights  and  is  revealed  to  be  laughing  inextin 
guishably.} 

FLORENCE  [slapping  JOHNNIE'S  back  with  her  other  hand  in 
her  extreme  jocosity}.  My!  But  those  ole-fashioned  dances 
are  funny!  Don't  they  look  crazy! 

ISABEL  [happily  calling  to  her}.  Do  we?  [She  discards 
her  lameness  entirely  during  the  next  few  measures.  The  two 


344  THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS 

dance  like  happy  experts  of  eighteen.  They  look  at  each  other 
like  lovers.  FLORENCE  ceases  to  laugh  and  becomes  mystified. 
So  does  JOHNNIE.  They  stare,  with  their  mouths  open. 
Finally  FLORENCE  speaks  with  the  emphasis  of  complete  puz 
zlement.] 

FLORENCE.     Well,  just  look  at  'em  lookin'  at  each  other! 

JOHNNIE  [grinning,  but  speaking  indignantly  to  her].  Ain't 
you  got  any  sense?  [AuNT  ELLEN  lifts  her  left  hand  from 
the  keys  in  a  passionate  gesture,  not  ceasing  to  play  with  her 
right.  As  her  back  is  obliquely  to  front  and  right  her  left 
hand  is  toward  FLORENCE  and  JOHNNIE.] 

FLORENCE  [inquiring  poignantly  the  meaning  of  the  ges 
ture].  What?  [AuNT  ELLEN  repeats  the  passionate  gesture. 
FLORENCE  is  more  mystified  and  also  somewhat  petulant.] 
Well,  I —  [JOHNNIE  seizes  her  hand  and  drags  her  quickly 
off  up  right] 

ISABEL  [not  stopping].    I'm  afraid  we  must  stop. 

AMES.     No! 

ISABEL.  I  mustn't  wear  you  out.  [Upon  this,  without 
looking  at  them,  AUNT  ELLEN  abruptly  stops  playing  in  the 
middle  of  a  measure.  She  does  not  look  at  them  at  all,  but 
goes  quickly  up  and  straight  off  left  without  turning.  They 
are  unconscious  of  her,  and  seem  even  unconscious  that  the 
piano  has  stopped  or  that  they  have  ceased  to  dance.  They 
have  come  to  a  halt  directly  up  of  the  table  left  center  and 
close  by  it,  looking  at  each  other] 

AMES  [speaking  angrily  the  instant  they  and  the  music  stop], 
I  want  to  tell  you  just  this:  you've  been  mocking  me  every 
second  since  we  first  met  in  that  God-forsaken  railroad  station. 

ISABEL.    No! 

AMES  [fiercely].     You  have!     Every  instant! 

ISABEL.     Never !     Never  once !     Never !     Never ! 

AMES.  You  were  at  it  half  the  day  yesterday  and  as  much 
of  the  night  as  you  could  stay  awake  and  all  day  to-day!  But 
it  won't  do! 

ISABEL.     When  did  you  decide  I  was  mocking  you? 

AMES.  I  thought  so  all  day,  but  I  knew  it  when  I  saw 
you  dancing  with  that  boy! 

ISABEL.     Do  you  mind  my  dancing  with  boys? 

AMES.  No!  I'm  not  jealous.  [His  tone  is  as  angry  as 
before]  But  it  came  over  me!  You've  just  mocked  me! 


THE  INTIMATE  STRANGERS  345 

ISABEL.  Can't  you  imagine  a  woman's  being  a  little  nervous 
about  one  man's  knowing  how  often  the  earth's  gone  round  the 
sun  since  she  was  born? 

AMES  [with  feeling].     Am  I  the  one  man? 

ISABEL.  That's  why  women  are  afraid  of  everybody's  know 
ing;  it  might  reach  the  one  man.  That's  the  reason  a  woman 
cares  about  her  age;  he  might  care!  [She  touches  the  open 
Bible  on  the  table.]  Look,  Mr.  Ames!  I'll  turn  my  back 
while  you're  looking.  [She  walks  away  from  him  slowly. 
AMES  puts  one  hand  on  Bible  but  keeps  looking  at  ISABEL.] 

ISABEL  [as  he  does  this,  her  voice  tremulous].  On  the  left 
hand  page  you'll  find  all  of  papa's  descendants  by  his  first  wife. 
On  the  right-hand  page  you'll  see  where  the  poor  old  darling 
married  again — such  a  heathenish  time — afterward — 

AMES.  That's  what  I  thought.  That's  why  I  was  looking 
for  your  Bible. 

ISABEL.  Underneath  is  where  you'll  find  me.  [Her  voice 
trembles  a  little  more.]  Have  you  found  me? 

AMES  [with  great  feeling  under  his  laughter].  Yes,  I  have! 
[Closes  Bible.] 

ISABEL  [weakly].  Oh,  you  didn't  look?  [AMES  crosses  to 
ISABEL,  holds  out  his  arms  as  if  to  embrace  her.] 

AMES  [tenderly].  Let's  sit  by  the  fire,  shall  we?  [Crosses 
right.  He  touches  the  switch  key  and  the  only  light  is  the  fire 
light.  She  sits  slowly  on  sofa,  looking  up  at  him,  and  he  takes 
a  chair  near  by.  Then  FLORENCE  is  heard  laughing  gaily  off 
up  left,  and  a  moment  later  she  is  heard  again.] 

FLORENCE  [affecting  reproach,  off  up  left].  All  right  for 
you,  Johnnie  White.  I'll  tell  your  mother  on  you! 

ISABEL  [softly].     The  fire's  pleasant,  even  in  April,  isn't  it? 

AMES.  Yes.  Do  you  think  you  could  say  to  me  good  night, 
dear,  without  the  good  night? 

ISABEL.  I  think  I  could — if  you're  sure  you  don't  mind  any 
thing  you  didn't  see  in  the  Bible,  dear. 

AMES.     You  infant! 

ISABEL.  Oh!  [AMES  takes  her  hand,  kisses  it,  and  then 
lifts  her  hand  to  his  cheek.  ISABEL  gives  a  little  exclamation 
of  delight.] 

[CURTAIN.] 


SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY  FOR  THE  STUDY  OF 
DRAMA  IN  AMERICA 

Charlton  Andrews 

The  Drama  To-day,  Philadelphia,  1913 

William  Archer 

A  Talk  with  Mr.  Brander  Matthews,  Pall  Mall  Budget, 
September  20,  1894,  P-  7 

George  Pierce  Baker 

Dramatic  Technique,  Boston,  1919 
Modern  American  Plays,  New  York,  1920: 
Augustus  Thomas,  As  a  Man  Thinks 
David  Belasco,  The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm 
Edward  Sheldon,  Romance 

Louis  Kaufman  Anspacher,  The  Unchastened  Woman 
Edward  Massey,  Plots  and  Playwrights 

David  Belasco 

The   Theatre  Through  Its  Stage  Door,  New  York  and 
London,   1919 

T.  Allston  Brown 

A  History  of  the  New  York  Stage,  New  York,  1903,  3 
Vols. 

Richard  Burton 

The  New  American  Drama,  New  York,  1913 
How  to  See  a  Play,  New  York,  1914 

Sheldon  Cheney 

The  New  Movement  in  the  Theatre,  New  York,  1914 
The  Art  Theatre;  a  discussion  of  its  ideals,  its  organiza 
tion  and  its  promise  as  a  corrective  for  present  evils  in 
the  commercial  theatre,  New  York,  1917 
347 


348  SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Henry  Austin  Clapp 

Reminiscences   of  a  Dramatic   Critic,   Boston   and    New 
York,  1902 

Barrett  H.  Clark 

The  British  and  American  Drama  of  To-day,  New  York, 
1915 

Mary  Caroline  Crawford 

The  Romance  of  the  American  Theatre,  Boston,  1913. 

Thomas  H.  Dickinson 

The  Case  of  American  Drama,  Boston  and  New  York, 

1915 

Chief    Contemporary    Dramatists,    First    Series,    Boston, 

1915,  contains  the  following  American  plays: 

Clyde  Fitch,  The  Truth 

W.  V.  Moody,  The  Great  Divide 

Augustus  Thomas,  The  Witching  Hour 

Percy  MacKaye,  The  Scarecrow 

Chief  Contemporary   Dramatists,   Second    Series,    Boston, 
1921,  contains  the  following  American  plays: 

Eugene  Walter,  The  Easiest  Way 

G.  P.  Peabody,  The  Piper 

G.  C.   Hazleton  and  J.  H.  Benrimo,    The  Yellow 

Jacket 

John  Drew 

My  Years  on  the  Stage,  New  York,  1922.     (In  prepara 
tion.) 

Walter  Pritchard  Eaton 

The  American  Stage  of  To-day,  Boston,   1908 

At  the  New  Theatre  and  Others:  The  American  Stage; 

Its  Problems  and  Performances,  1908-1910,  Boston,  1910 

Daniel  Frohman 

Memories  of  a  Manager,  New  York,  1911 

Daniel  Frohman  and  Isaac  F.  Marcosson 

Charles  Frohman:  Manager  and  Man,  New  York,  1916 


SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY  349 

Clayton  Hamilton 

The  Theory  of  the  Theatre,  New  York,  1910 
Studies  in  Stagecraft,  New  York,  1914 
Problems  of  the  Playwright,  New  York,  1917 
Seen  on  the  Stage -,  New  York,  1920 

Norman  Hapgood 

The  Stage  in  America,  1897-1900,  New  York,  1901 

Archibald  Henderson 

The  Changing  Drama,  New  York,  1914 

Arthur  Hopkins 

How's  'Your  Second  Act,  New  York,  1918 

Laurence  Hutton 

Plays  and  Players,  New  York,  1875 

Curiosities  of  the  American  Stage,  New  York,  1891 

Arthur  E.  Krows 

Play  Production  in  America,  New  York,  1916 

A.  E.  Lancaster 

Historical  American   Plays,    The   Chautauquan,   Volume 
XXXI,  Cleveland,  1900 

Ludwig  Lewisohn 

The  Drama  and  the  Stage,  New  York,  1922 

Kenneth  Macgowan 

The  Theatre  of  Tomorrow,  New  York,  1921 

Percy  MacKaye 

The  Playhouse  and  the  Play,  New  York,  1907 
The  Civic  Theatre,  New  York,   1912 
Community  Drama,  Boston,  1917 

Burns  Mantle 

The  Best  Plays  of  1919-1920,  Boston,  1920 
The  Best  Plays  of  1920-1921,  Boston,  1921 

Brander  Matthews 

The  Historical  Novel  and  Other  Essays,  New  York,  1901 


350  SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The  Development  of  the  Drama,  New  York,  1903 

Inquiries  and  Opinions,  New  York,  1907 

A  Study  of  the  Drama,  Boston,  New  York,  and  Chicago, 

1910 

A  Book  about  the  Theatre,  New  York,  1916 

These  Many  Years,  New  York,  1917 

The  Principles  of  Playmaking,  New  York,  1919 

Brander  Matthews  and  Laurence  Hutton 

The  Life  and  Art  of  Edwin  Booth  and  His  Contem 
poraries,  Boston,  1907 

Hiram  K.  Moderwell 

The  Theatre  of  To-day,  London,  1914 

Montrose  J.  Moses 

Famous  Actor-Families  in  America,  New  York,  1906 

The  American  Dramatist,  Boston,  1917 

The  Drama,  1860-1918,  Chapter  XVIII  of  Part  II,  The 

Cambridge  History  of  American  Literature,  New  York, 

1921 

Representative  Plays  by  American  Dramatists,  New  York, 

1918-1921.     Vol.  I,  1765-1819: 

Thomas  Godfrey,  The  Prince  of  Parthia 

Robert  Rogers,  Ponteach;  or,  the  Savages  of  America 

Mrs.  Mercy  Warren,  The  Group;  A  Farce 

Hugh  Henry  Brackenridge,  The  Battle  of  Bunkers 

Hill 

John   Leacock,    The  Fall   of  British    Tyranny;  or, 

American  Liberty 

Samuel  Low,  The  Politician  Out-witted 

Royall  Tyler,  The  Contrast 

William  Dunlap,  Andre 

J.   N.  Barker,    The  Indian  Princess;   or,  La  Belle 

Sauvage 

M.  M.  Noah,  She  would  be  a  Soldier;  or,  The  Plains 

of  Chippewah 

Vol.     II,  1815-1858.     (In  preparation) 
Vol.  Ill,   1856-1917: 

Charles  Burke,  Rip  Van  Winkle:  A  Legend  of  the 

Catskills 

George  Henry  Boker,  Francesca  da  Rimini 


SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY  351 

Oliver  Bell  Bunce,  Love  in  '*]6.     An  Incident  of  the 
Revolution 

Steele  MacKaye,  Paul  Kauvar;  or,  Anarchy 
Bronson  Howard,  Shenandoah 
Augustus  Thomas,  In  Mizzoura 
Clyde  Fitch,  The  Moth  and  the  Flame 
Langdon  Mitchell,  The  New  York  Idea 
Eugene  Walter,  The  Easiest  Way 
David  Belasco,  The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm 
A  Study  Course  on  the  American  Drama,  Specially  Pre 
pared    for   the   American    Drama   Year   of    the    Drama 
League  of  America,  1916 

George  Jean  Nathan 

The  Popular  Theatre,  New  York,  1918 
The  Critic  and  the  Drama,  New  York,  1922 
Another  Book  on  the  Theatre,  New  York,  1915 

William  Lyon  Phelps 

The  Twentieth  Century  Theatre,  New  York,  1918 
Essays  on  Modern  Dramatists,  New  York,  1921 

John  A.  Pierce 

The  Masterpieces  of  Modern  Drama.  Abridged  in  Nar 
rative  with  Dialogue  of  the  Great  Scenes;  prefaced  with 
a  critical  essay  by  Brander  Matthews,  New  York,  1915. 
2  Vols. 

Channing  Pollock 

The  Footlights  Fore  and  Aft,  Boston,  1911 

Arthur  Hobson  Quinn 

The  Early  Drama.     1756-1860,  Chapter  II   of  Part  I, 
The   Cambridge  History   of  American   Literature,   New 
York,  1917 
Representative  American  Plays,  New  York,  1917: 

Thomas  Godfrey,  The  Prince  of  Parthia 

Royall  Tyler,  The  Contrast 

William  Dunlap,  Andre 

James  Nelson  Barker,  Superstition 

John  Howard  Payne  )  n,     7     TT 

Washington  Irving      \  Charles  " 


352  SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Richard  Penn  Smith,  The  Triumph  at  Plattsburg 

George  Washington   Parke  Custis,   Pocahontas;  or, 

The  Settlers  of  Virginia 

Robert  Montgomery  Bird,  The  Broker  of  Bogota 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis,  Tortesa  the  Usurer 

Anna  Cora  Mowatt  Ritchie,  Fashion 

George  Henry  Boker,  Francesco  da  Rimini 

Dion  Boucicault,  The  Octaroon,  or  Life  in  Missis 

sippi 

Joseph  Jefferson,  Rip  Van  Winkle 

Steele  MacKaye,  Hazel  Kirke 

Bronson  Howard,  Shenandoah 

William  Gillette,  Secret  Service 


Clyde  Fitch,  Her  Great  Watch 
Langdon  Mitchell,  The  New  York  Idea 
Augustus  Thomas,  The  Witching  Hour 
William  Vaughn  Moody,  The  Faith  Healer 
Percy  MacKaye,  The  Scarecrow 
Edward  Sheldon,  The  Boss 
Rachel  Crothers,  He  and  She 

Oral  Sumner  Reed 

The  Plays  of  Samuel  Woodworth,  The  Sewanee  Review, 
Sewanee,  1919,  Vol.  27 

P.  I.  Reed 

The  Realistic  Presentation  of  American  Characters  in 
Native  American  Plays  Prior  to  Eighteen  Seventy,  Ohio 
State  University  Bulletin,  Vol.  XXII,  May,  1919 

Arthur  Ruhl 

Second  Nights,  New  York,  1914 

Oliver  Sayler 

The  Real  Eugene  O'Neill,  The  Century,  New  York, 
1922,  Vol.  103,  p.  351 

E.  H.  Sothern 

The  Melancholy  Tale  of  "Me";  My  Remembrances, 
New  York,  1916 


SELECTED  BIBLIOGRAPHY  353 

L.  C.  Strang 

Players  and  Plays  of  the  Last  Quarter  Century,  Boston, 
1902.    2  Vols. 

Augustus  Thomas 

The  Print  of  My  Remembrance,  New  York,  1922.     (In 
preparation) 

J.  Ranken  Towse 

Sixty  Years  of  the  Theatre,  New  York  and  London,  1916 

John  A.  Weaver 

Eugene   O'Neill  and  P oily annaly sis,   Vanity  Fair,   New 
York,  1921,  Vol.  1 6,  p.  43 

William  Winter 

Shadows  of  the  Stag e,  New  York,  1892-1895 

Other   Days;   Being    Chronicles   and   Memories    of    the 

Stage,  New  York,  1908 

The  Wallet  of  Time,  Containing  Personal,  Biographical 

and  Critical  Reminiscences  of  the  American  Theatre,  New; 

York,  1913.     2  Vols. 

Vagrant  Memories,  New  York,  1915 


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